"S 


COUPON  BONDS, 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


/ 


J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE, 

AUTHOR   OF   "  LAWRENCE'S   ADVENTURES,"   "  JACK   HAZARD   AND   HIS   FORTUNES,' 
ETC.,   ETC. 


Wiii\)  illtijstrationjs. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Tioknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY    JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    CO., 
the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congrecs,  at  Washington. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co, 
Cambkidge. 


c^ 


CONTENTS 


Coupon 

Bonds. 

Page 

I. 

"What  Mr.  Ducklow  brought  Home  in  his  Boot-Leg 

1 

II. 

Miss  Beswick 

11 

III. 

A  Comfortable  Investment           .... 

.       20 

IV. 

The  Returned  Soldier 

28 

V. 

Mr.  Ducklow's  Adventures           .... 

.       36 

VI. 

Mrs.  Ducklow's  Adventures 

43 

VII. 

The  Journey 

.       47 

VIII. 

What  Mr.  Ducklow  carried  in  the  Envelope    . 

51 

IX. 

Food  for  Reflection 

.       53 

X. 

Reuben's  Misfortune 

57 

XI. 

Taddy's  Financial  Operations      .... 

.       60 

Madam  Waldoborottgh's  Carriage 


65 


Fessenden's. 

I.  The  Last  Night  of  Autumn 97 

II.  Fessenden's  gets  a  Ride  ......  107 

III.  Makes  Acquaintance  with  the  Williams  Family  .         .  112 

IV.  Saturday  Night  and  Sunday 121 

V.  A  Tremendous  Joke    .         .         .         .         •         .         .  1 28 

VI.  The  Removal          .         , 135 

VII.  Gingerford 141 

VIII.  Gingerford's  Neat  Revenge 146 

IX.  Two  Funerals 152 

X.  Revenge  of  the  Frisbie  Faction        .         .         .         .  155 

XI.  Consequences      .         .         .         .         .         •         •         .161 

XII.  A  Stranger  visits  the  Grave 164 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Archibald  Blossom,  Bachelor. 

I.  Mr.  Blossom  hears  Bad  News 

II.  A  Visit  to  the  Widow  and  Fatherless 

III.  Mr.  Archibald  and  Mrs.  Benjamin 

IV.  Cyrus        ....... 

V.  A.  B.  becomes  a  Victim 

VI.  The  Wedding  Day,  and  what  followed 

In  thi<]  Ice. 

I.    What  might  have  been  a  Golden  Wedding 

II.  The  Idol  of  his  Grandparents 

III.  The  Little  Housewife  and  her  Friends 

IV.  Phil  asserts  his  Independence 
V.    The  Pond-Eakes  come  in  Play     . 

VI.  Phil  resigns  his  Situation 

VII.  A  Farewell  and  an  Apparition     . 
VIII.    Uncle  Jim's  Evening  Call 

IX.    How  Clinton  missed  a  rare  Chance 
X.    A  Golden  Wedding,  after  all 

Nancy  Blynn's  Lovers 


Mr.  Blazay's  Experience. 

I.  The  Lady  in  Black 

II.  Mr.  Thornton 

III.  Susie  and  the  Bees 

IV.  How  I  Avas  entertained   . 
V.  P.  Green    . 

VI.  Mrs.  Thornton's  Tea 

VII.  P.  Green's  Diplomacy 

VIII.  One  of  Peleg's  Jokes 

IX.  Cold  Water 

X.  My  Trunk  is  packed 

XI.  P.  Green  shows  his  Colors 

XII.  Conclusion     . 


169 
171 
177 
179 
183 
191 


19d 
202 
208 
219 
223 
228 
231 
238 
243 
247 

253 


274 
276 
278 
282 
285 
289 
292 
295 
299 
305 
306 
310 


Preaching  for  Selwyn. 

I.    Mr.  Jervey's  Part  of  the  Story 
II.    Parson  Dodd  and  the  Bay  Mare 


312 
317 


CONTENTS.  V 

III.  Parson  Dodd's  Sunday-Morning  Call  ....  328 

IV.  Mr.  Hillbright  sets  off  on  his  Mission      .         .         .  333 
V.    Jakes  in  Pursuit          .......  338 

VI.     The  Widow  Garcey 3^1 

VII.    Father  Laj)ham's  Exploit    ....                  .  347 

VIII.    Denouement  ........  354 

The  Romance  of  a  Glove 360 

The  Man  who  stole  a  Meeting-House         .        .        .  386 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Coupon  Bonds.  Page 

"  The  terrified  woman  uttered  a  wild  scream  "  ...         8 

"  Here,  Reuben,  are  your  CO wpon  bonds  "      ...  63 


Archibald  Blossom. 

•"Benjamin!'  ejaculated  Archy "    .         .         .         .         .     192 

In  the  Ice. 

"  This  is  no  work  for  you,  Mr.  Dracutt  "    .        .         .         .228 

"'Clinton!'  shrieked  the  old  lady "      .         ■.         .         .    •      243 

Nancy  Blynn's  Lovers. 

"'Cephas!  you  offer  7ne  money  ! '" 271 

Mr.  Blazay's  Experience. 

"There  she  stood,  in  an  attitude  that  might  have  done 

credit  to  Rachel " 310 

Preaching  for  Selwyn. 

"  Dodd  was  about  as  badly  frightened  "     .         .         .         .333 

The  Romance  of  a  Glove. 

"  Joseph,  who  burst  in  upon  me  in  my  extremity  "    .         .     378 

The  Man  who  stole  a  Meeting-House. 

"'Whose  is 't.  if  'ta'n't  mine?'" 396 


OOUPOI^   BOI^TDS 


WHAT    MR.    DUCKLOW   BROUGHT    HOME    IN    HIS    BOOT-LEG. 

ON  a  certain  mild  March  evening,  A.  D.  1864,  the 
Ducklow  kitchen  had  a  general  air  of  waiting  for 
somebody.  Mrs.  Ducklow  sat  knitting  by  the  light  of  a 
kerosene  lamp,  but  paused  ever  and  anon,  neglecting  her 
stocking,  and  knitting  her  brows  instead,  with  an  aspect 
of  anxious  listening.  The  old  gray  cat,  coiled  up  on  a 
cushion  at  her  side,  purring  in  her  sleep,  purred  and  slept 
as  if  she  knew  perfectly  well  who  was  coming  soon  to 
occupy  that  chair,  and  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
The  old-fashioned  clock,  perched  upon  the  high  mantel- 
piece of  the  low-studded  room,  ticked  away  lonesomely, 
as  clocks  tick  only  when  somebody  is  waited  for  who  does 
not  come.  Even  the  teakettle  on  the  stove  seemed  to  be 
in  the  secret,  for  it  simmered  and  sang  after  the  manner 
of  a  wise  old  teakettle  fully  conscious  of  the  importance 
of  its  mission.  The  side-table,  which  w^as  simply  a  leaf  on 
hinges  fixed  in  the  wall,  and  looked  like  an  apron  when 
it  was  down,  giving  to  that  side  of  the  kitchen  a  curious 
resemblance  to  Mrs.  Ducklow,  and  rested  on  one  arm  when 
ii:  was  up,  in  which  position  it  reminded  you  more  of  ]\Ir. 
Ducklow  leaning  his  chin  on  his  hand,  —  the  side-table 
was  set  with  a  single  plate,  knife  and  fork,  and  cup  and 
saucer,  indicating  that  the  person  waited  for  was  expected 
-  1 


'^"'  '  COUPON  BONDS. 

to  partake  of  refreshments.  Behind  the  stairway  door  was 
a  small  boy  kicking  off  a  very  small  pair  of  trousers  with  a 
degree  of  reluctance  w^hich  showed  that  he  also  wished  to 
sit  up  and  wait  for  somebody. 

"  Say,  ma,  need  I  go  to  bed  now ! "  he  exclaimed  rather 
than  inquired,  starting  to  pull  on  the  trousers  again  after 
he  ha?  got  one  leg  free.  "  He  '11  want  me  to  hold  the 
lantern  for  him  to  take  care  of  the  hoss." 

"No,  no,  Taddy,"  for  that  was  the  boy's  name  (short 
for  Thaddeus),  "yo\j  '11  only  be  in  the  way,  if  you  set  up. 
Besides,  I  want  to  mend  your  pants." 

"  You  're  always  wantin'  to  mend  my  pants !  "  complained 
the  youngster,  who  seemed  to  think  that  it  was  by  no 
means  to  do  him  a  favor,  but  rather  to  afford  herself  a 
gloating  pleasure,  that  Mrs.  Ducklow,  who  had  a  mania  for 
patching,  required  the  garment  to  be  delivered  up  to  her. 
"  I  wish  there  was  n't  such  a  thing  as  pants  in  the  world  !  " 
—  utterly  regardless  of  the  plight  the  world  would  be  in 
without  them. 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  aftei?  all  the  trouble  and  expense 
we  've  been  to  to  clothe  ye  ! "  said  the  good  w^oman,  re- 
provingly. "  Where  would  you  be  now,  if  't  was  n't  for  me 
and  yer  Pa  Ducklow  1 " 

"  I  should  n't  be  goin'  to  bed  when  I  don't  want  to  !  " 
he  muttered,  just  loud  enough  to  be  heard. 

"  You  ungrateful  child  !  "  said  ^Irs.  Ducklow,  not  with- 
out reason,  for  Taddy  knew  very  well  —  at  least  he  was 
reminded  of  the  fact  often  enough  —  that  he  owed  to  them 
his  home  and  all  its  comforts.  "  Would  n't  be  going  to 
bed  Avhen  j^ou  don't  w\ant  to  !  You  w^ould  n't  be  going  to 
bed  when  you  do  want  to,  more  likely ;  for  ten  to  one  you 
would  n't  have  a  bed  to  go  to.  Think  of  the  sitewation 
you  was  in  when  we  adopted  ye,  and  then  talk  that  w\ay  ! " 

As  this  was  an  unanswerable  argument,  Taddy  contented 


COUPON  BONDS.  3 

% 

himself  with  thrusting  a  hand  into  his  trousers  and  reck- 
lessly increasing  the  area  of  the  forthcoming  patch.  "  If 
she  likes  to  mend  so  well,  let  her  !  "  thought  he. 

"  Taddy,  are  you  tearing  them  pants  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Duck- 
low  sharply,  hearing  a  sound  alarmingly  suggestive  of 
cracking  threads. 

"  I  was  pullin'  'em  off,"  said  Taddy.  "  I  never  see  such 
mean  cloth  !  can't  touch  it  but  ifhas  to  tear.  Say,  ma,  do 
ye  think  he  '11  bring  me  home  a  drum  1 " 

"You'll  know  in  the  morning." 

"  I  want  to  know  to-night.  He  said  mabby  he  would. 
Say,  can't  I  set  up  1 " 

"  I  '11  let  ye  know  whether  you  can  set  up,  after  you  've 
been  told  so  many  times  !  " 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Ducklow  rose  from  her  chair,  laid  down 
her  knitting-work,  and  started  for  the  stairway  door  with 
great  energy  and  a  rattan.  But  Taddy,  who  perceived 
retribution  approaching,  did  not  see  fit  to  wait  for  it.  He 
darted  up  the  stairs  and  crept  into  his  bunk  with  the 
lightness  and  agility  of  a  squirrel. 

"  I  'm  abed  !  Say,  ma,  I  'm  abed  !  "  he  cried,  eager  to 
save  the  excellent  lady  the  trouble  of  ascending  the  stairs. 
"  I  'm  'most  asleep  a'ready  !  " 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  for  you  you  be  ! "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow, 
gathering  up  the  garment  he  had  left  behind  the  door. 
" Why,  Taddy,  how  you  did  tear  it !  I've  a  good  notion 
to  give  ye  a  smart  trouncing  now  ! " 

Taddy  began  to  snore,  and  Mrs.  Ducklow  concluded  that 
she  would  not  wake  him. 

"  It  is  mean  cloth,  as  he  says  ! "  she  exclaimed,  examining 
it  by  the  kerosene  lamp.  "  For  my  part,  I  consider  it  a 
great  misfortin  that  shoddy  was  ever  invented.  Ye  can't 
buy  any  sort  of  a  ready-made  garment  for  boys  now-days 
but  it  comes  to  pieces  at  the  least  wear  or  strain,  like  so 
much  brown  paper." 


^ 


4  COUPON  BONDS. 

*f 

She  was  shaping  the  necessary  patch,  when  the  sound 
of  wheels  coming  into  the  yard  told  her  that  the  person  so 
long  waited  for  had  arrived. 

"That  you?"  said  she,  opening  the  kitchen  door  and 
looking  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Yes,"  replied  a  man's  voice. 

"  Ye  want  the  lantern  1 " 

"  No  :  jest  set  the  lamp  in  the  winder,  and  I  guess  I  can 
git  along.     "Whoa  !  "    And  the  man  jumped  to  the  ground. 

"  Had  good  luck?"  the  woman  inquired  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  when  I  come  in,"  was  the  evasive  answer. 

"  Has  he  bought  me  a  drum  1 "  bawled  Taddy  from  the 
chamber  stairs. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  come  up  there  and  'tend  to  ye  1 " 
demanded  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

The  boy  was  not  particularly  ambitious  of  enjojang  that 
honor. 

"You  be  still  and  go  to  sleep,  then,  or  you'll  git 
drummed  !  " 

And  she  latched  th^  stairway  door,  greatly  to  the  dismay 
of  Master  Taddy,  who  felt  that  some  vast  and  momentous 
secret  was  kept  from  him.  Overhearing  whispered  con- 
ferences between  his  adopted  parents  in  the  morning, 
noticing  also  the  cautious  glances  they  cast  at  him,  and  the 
persistency  with  which  they  repeatedly  sent  him  away  out 
of  sight  on  slight  and  absurd  pretences,  he  had  gathered  a 
fact  and  drawn  an  inference,  namely,  that  a  great  purchase 
was  to  be  made  by  Mr.  Ducklow  that  day  in  town,  and 
that,  on  his  return,  he  (Taddy)  was  to  be  sui-prised  by  the 
presentation  of  what  he  had  long  coveted  and  teased  for, 
—  a  new  drmn. 

To  lie  quietly  in  bed  under  such  circumstances  was  an 
act  that  required  more  self-control  than  blaster  Taddy 
possessed.     Accordingly  he  stole  down  stan-s  and  listened. 


COUPON   BONDS.  5 

feeling  sure  that  if  the  drum  should  come  in,  Mrs.  Duck- 
low,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Ducklow  himself,  would  be  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  thumping  it  softly  to  try  its 
sound. 

Mrs.  Ducklow  was  busy  taking  her  husband's  supper 
out  of  the  oven,  where  it  had  been  kept  warm  for  him, 
pouring  hot  water  into  the  teapot,  and  giving  the  last 
touches  to  the  table.  Then  came  the  familiar  grating 
noise  of  a  boot  on  the  scraper.  Mrs.  Ducklow  stepped 
quickly  to  open  the  door  for  Mr.  Ducklow.  Taddy,  well 
aware  that  he  was  committing  an  indiscretion,  but  inspired 
by  the  wild  hope  of  seeing  a  new  drum  come  into  the 
kitchen,  ventured  to  unlatch  the  stairway  door,  open  it  a 
crack,  and  peep. 

Mr.  Ducklow  entered,  bringing  a  number  of  parcels  con- 
taining purchases  from  the  stores,  but  no  drum  visible  to 
Taddy. 

"Did  you  buy]"  whimpered  Mrs.  Ducklow,  relieving 
him  of  his  load. 

Mr.  Ducklow  pointed  mysteriously  at  the  stairway  door, 
lifting  his  eyebrows  interrogatively. 

"  Taddy  r'  said  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "0,  he's  abed, — 
though  I  never  in  my  life  had  such  a  time  to  git  him  off 
out  of  the  way  ;  for  he  'd  somehow  got  possessed  with  the 
idee  that  you  was  to  buy  something,  and  he  wanted  to  set 
up  and  see  what  it  was." 

"Strange  how  childern  will  ketch  things  sometimes, 
best  ye  can  do  to  prevent ! "  said  Mr.  Ducklow. 

"  But  did  ye  buy  1 " 

"  You  better  jest  take  them  matches  and  put  'em  out  o' 
the  way,  fust  thing,  'fore  ye  forgit  it.  Matches  are  dan- 
gerous to  have  layin'  around,  and  I  never  feel  safe  till 
thef/  're  safe." 

And  Mr.  Ducklow  hung  up  his  hat,  and  laid  his  over- 


6  COUPON  BONDS. 

coat  across  a  chair  in  the  next  room,  with  a  carefulness 
and  deliberation  exhausting  to  the  patience  of  good  Mrs. 
Ducklow,  and  no  less  trying  to  that  of  Master  Taddy,  who 
was  waiting  to  hear  the  important  question  answered. 

"  Come  !  "  said  she,  after  hastily  disposing  of  the  matches, 
"  what 's  the  use  of  keeping  me  in  suspense  1  Bid  ye 
buy  1 " 

"  Where  did  ye  put  'em  1 "  asked  Mr.  Ducklow,  taking- 
down  the  bootjack. 

"  In  the  little  tin  pail,  where  we  always  keep  'em,  of 
course  !     Where  should  I  put  'em  ? " 

"  You  need  n't  be  cross.  I  asked,  'cause  I  did  n't  hear 
ye  put  the  cover  on.  I  don't  believe  ye  did  put  the  cover 
on,  either ;  and  I  sha'  n't  be  easy  till  ye  do." 

Mrs.  Ducklow  returned  to  the  pantry ;  and  her  husband, 
pausing  a  moment,  leaning  over  a  chair,  heard  the  cover 
go  on  the  tin  pail  with  a  click  and  a  clatter  which  betrayed, 
that,  if  ever  there  was  an  angry  and  impatient  cover,  that 
was. 

"Anybody  been  here  to-day?"  Mr.  Ducklow  inquired, 
pressing  the  heel  of  his  right  boot  in  the  jack,  and  steady- 
ing the  toe  under  a  round  of  the  chair. 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Ye  been  anywheres  ] " 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  1 "  mildly  inquired  Mr.  Ducklow. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  with  decided  ill-tem- 
per. 

Mr.  Ducklow  drew  a  deep  sigh,  as  he  turned  and  looked 
upon  her. 

"  Wal,  you  be  about  the  most  uncomf table  woman  ever 
I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  dark  and  dissatisfied  countenance. 

"  If  you  can't  answer  my  question,  I  don't  see  why  I 
need  take  the  trouble  to  answer  yours,"  —  and  Mrs.  Duck- 


COUPON  BONDS.  7 

low  returned  with  compressed  lips  to  her  patching.     "  Yer 
supper  is  ready ;  ye  can  eat  it  when  ye  please." 

**  I  was  answerin'  your  question  as  fast  as  I  could,"  said 
her  husband,  in  a  tone  of  excessive  mildness,  full  of  sorrow 
and  discouragement. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  any  signs  of  your  answering  it." 

And  the  housewife's  fingers  stitched  away  energetically 
at  the  patch. 

"  Wal,  wal !  ye  don't  see  everything  !  " 

Mr.  Ducklow,  having  already  removed  one  boot,  drew 
gently  at  the  other.  As  it  came  off,  something  fell  out  on 
the  floor.  He  picked  it  up,  and  handed  it  with  a  trium- 
phant smile  to  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  0,  indeed  !  is  this  the  —  '* 

She  was  radiant.  Her  hands  dropped  their  work,  and 
opened  the  package,  which  consisted  of  a  large  unsealed 
envelope  and  folded  papers  within.  These  she  unfolded 
and  examined  with  beaming  satisfaction. 

*'  But  what  made  ye  carry  'em  in  yer  boot  so  1 " 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  "  I  was  afraid  o'  bein'  robbed.  I  never  was  so 
afraid  o'  bein'  robbed  in  my  life  !  So,  jest  as  I  got  clear  o' 
the  town,  I  took  it  out  o'  my  pocket "  (meaning,  not  the 
town,  but  the  envelope  containing  the  papers),  "  an'  tucked* 
it  down  my  boot-leg.  Then,  all  the  way  home,  I  was 
scaret  when  I  was  ridin'  alone,  an'  still  more  scaret  when  I 
heard  anybody  comin'  after  me.  You  see,  it 's  jest  like  so 
much  money." 

And  he  arranged  the  window-curtain  in  a  manner  to 
prevent  the  sharpest-eyed  burglar  from  peeping  in  and 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  papers. 

He  neglected  to  secure  the  stairway  door,  however. 
There,  in  his  hiding-place  behind  it,  stood  Taddy,  shiver- 
ing in  his  shirt,  but  peeping  and  listening  in  a  fever  of  cu- 


8  COUPON  BONDS. 

riosity  which  nothing  could  chill.  His  position  was  such 
that  he  could  not  see  Mr.  Dacklow  or  the  documents,  and 
his  mind  was  left  free  to  revel  in  the  most  daring  fancies 
regarding  the  wonderful  purchase.  He  had  not  yet  fully 
given  up  the  idea  of  a  new  drum,  although  the  image, 
which  vaguely  shaped  itself  in  his  mind,  of  Mr.  Ducklow 
*'  tucking  it  down  his  boot-leg,"  presented  difficulties. 

"  This  is  the  bond,  you  see,"  Mr.  Ducklow  explained ; 
"  and  all  these  little  things  that  fill  out  the  sheet  are  the 
cowpons.  You  have  only  to  cut  off  one  o'  these,  take  it 
to  the  bank  when  it  is  due,  and  draw  the  interest  on  it  in 
gold  ! " 

"But  suppose  you  lose  the  bonds?"  queried  Mrs.  Duck- 
low, regarding,  not  without  awe,  the  destructible  paper 
representatives  of  so  much  property. 

"That's  what  I've  been  thinkin'  of;  that's  what's 
made  me  so  narvous.  I  supposed  't  would  be  like  so  much 
railroad  stock,  good  for  nothin'  to  nobody  but  the  owner, 
and  somethin'  that  could  be  replaced  if  I  lost  it.  But  the 
man  to  the  bank  said  no,  —  't  was  like  so  much  currency, 
and  I  must  look  out  for  it.  That 's  what  filled  all  the 
bushes  with  robbers  as  I  come  along  the  road.  And  I  tell 
ye,  't  was  a  relief  to  feel  I  'd  got  safe  home  at  last ;  though 
I  don't  see  now  how  we  're  to  keep  the  plaguy  things  so  we 
sha'  n't  feel  uneasy  about  'em." 

"  Nor  I  either !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow,  turning  pale. 
"  Suppose  the  house  should  take  fire  !  or  burglars  should 
break  in  !  I  don't  wonder  you  was  so  particular  about  the 
matches  !  Dear  me  !  I  shall  be  frightened  to  death  ! 
I  'd  no  idee  't  was  to  be  such  dangerous  property !  I  shall 
be  thinking  of  fires  and  burglars  !  —  0-h-h-h  !  " 

The  terrified  woman  uttered  a  wild  scream  ;  for  just  then 
a  door  flew  suddenly  open,  and  there  burst  into  the  room 
a  frightful  object,  making  a  headlong  plunge  at  the  pre- 


COUPON    BONDS.  9 

cioiis  papers.  Mr.  Ducklow  sprang  back  against  the  table 
set  for  his  supper  with  a  force  that  made  everything  jar. 
Then  he  sprang  forward  again,  instinctively  reaching  to 
grasp  and  save  from  plunder  the  coupon  bonds.  But  by 
this  time  both  he  and  his  wife  had  become  aware  of  the 
nature  of  the  intrusion. 

"  Thaddeus  !  "  ejaculated  the  lady.  "  How  came  you 
here  ]     Get  up  !     Give  an  account  of  yourself !  " 

Taddy,  whose  abrupt  appearance  in  the  room  had  been 
altogether  involuntary,  was  quite  innocent  of  any  jM'eda- 
tory  designs.  Leaning  forward  farther  and  farther,  in  the 
ardor  of  discovery,  he  had,  when  too  late  to  save  himself, 
experienced  the  phenomenon  of  losing  his  balance,  and 
pitched  from  the  stairway  into  the  kitchen  with  a  violence 
that  threw  the  door  back  against  the  wall  with  a  bang, 
and  laid  him  out,  a  sprawling  figure,  in  scanty,  ghostly  ap- 
parel, on  the  floor. 

"What  ye  want?  What  ye  here  fori"  sternly  de- 
manded Mr.  Ducklow,  snatching  him  up  by  one  arm,  and 
shaking  him. 

"  Don't  know,"  faltered  the  luckless  youngster,  speaking 
the  truth  for  once  in  his  life.     "  Fell." 

"  Fell !  How  did  you  come  to  fall  ]  What  are  you  out 
o' bed  fori" 

"  Don't  know,"  —  snivelling  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 
"Didn't  know  I  was." 

"  Got  up  without  knowing  it  !  That 's  a  likely  story  ! 
How  could  that  happen  you,  sir  1 "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Don't  know,  'thout  't  was  I  got  up  in  my  sleep,"  said 
Taddy,  who  had  on  rare  occasions  been  known  to  indulge 
in  moderate  somnambulism. 

"  In  your  sleep  !  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  incredulously. 

"  I  guess  so.  I  was  dreamin'  you  brought  me  home  a 
new  drum,  —  tucked  down  yer  —  boot-leg,"  faltered  Taddy. 
1* 


10  COUPON  BONDS. 

"  Strange  ! "  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  with  a  glance  at  his 
wife.     "  But  how  could  I  bring  a  drum  in  my  boot-leg  ^ " 

"  Don't  know,  'thout  it 's  a  new  kind,  one  that  11  shet 
up." 

Taddy  looked  eagerly  round,  but  saw  nothing  new  or  in- 
teresting, except  some  curious-looking  papers  which  Mrs. 
Ducklow  was  hastily  tucking  into  an  envelope, 

"Say,  did  ye,  pa]" 

*'  Did  1 1  Of  course  I  did  n't !  What  nonsense  !  But 
how  came  ye  down  here  ]     Speak  the  truth  !  " 

"  I  dreamt  you  was  blowin'  it  up,  and  I  sprung  to  ketch 
it,  when,  fust  I  knowed,  I  was  on  the  floor,  like  a  thousan' 
o'  brick  !  'Mos'  broke  my  knee-pans  !  "  whimpered  Taddy. 
"  Say,  did  n't  ye  bring  me  home  nothin'  1 '  What  's  them 
things  r' 

"  Nothin'  little  boys  know  anything  about.  Now  run 
back  to  bed  again.  I  forgot  to  buy  you  a  drum  to-day, 
but  I  '11  git  ye  somethin'  next  time  I  go  to  town,  —  if  I 
think  on 't!" 

"  So  ye  always  say,  but  ye  never  think  on  't !  "  com- 
plained Taddy. 

"  There,  there  !  Somebody 's  comin' !  What  a  lookin' 
object  you  are,  to  be  seen  by  visitors  !  " 

There  was  a  knock.  Taddy  disappeared.  Mr.  Ducklow 
turned  anxiously  to  his  wife,  who  was  hastily  hiding  the 
bonds  in  her  palpitating  bosom. 

"  Who  can  it  be  this  time  o'  night  ? " 

*'  Sakes  alive  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  in  whose  mind  bur- 
glars were  uppermost,  "  I  wish,  whoever  't  is,  they  'd  keep 
away  !     Go  to  the  door,"  she  whispered,  resuming  her  work. 

Mr.  Ducklow  complied ;  and,  as  the  visitor  entered, 
there  she  sat  plying  her  needle  as  industriously  and  de- 
murely as  though  neither  bonds  nor  burglars  had  ever 
been  beard  of  in  that  remote  rural  district. 


COUPON  BONDS.  11 

II. 

MISS   BESWICK. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Beswick,  walk  in  !  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow. 

A  tall,  spare,  somewhat  prim-looking  female  of  middle 
age,  with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  entered,  nodding  a  curt 
and  precise  good-evening,  first  to  Mr.  Ducklow,  then  to  his 
wife. 

"  What,  that  you  1 "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  with  curiosity 
and  surprise.  "  Where  on  'arth  did  you  come  from  1  Set 
her  a  chair,  why  don't  ye,  father  1 " 

Mr.  Ducklow,  who  was  busy  slipping  his  feet  into  a  pair 
of  old  shoes,  hastened  to  comply  with  the  hospitable  sug- 
gestion. 

"  I  've  only  jest  got  home,"  said  he,  apologetically,  as  if 
fearful  lest  the  fact  of  his  being  caught  in  his  stockings 
should  create  suspicions  :  so  absurdly  careful  of  appear- 
ances some  people  become,  when  they  have  anything  to 
conceal.  "  Jest  had  time  to  kick^  my  boots  off,  you  see. 
Take  a  seat." 

"  Thank  ye.  I  s'pose  you  '11  think  I  'm  wild,  makin' 
calls  at  this  hour  !  " 

And  Miss  Beswick  seated  herself  with  an  angular  move- 
ment, and  held  herself  prim  and  erect  in  the  chair. 

*'  Why,  no,  I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  civilly ;  while 
at  the  same  time  she  did  think  it  very  extraordinary  and 
unwarrantable  conduct  on  the  part  of  her  neighbor  to  be 
walking  the  streets  and  entering  the  dwellings  of  honest 
people,  alone,  after  eight  o'clock,  on  a  dark  night. 

"You're  jest  in  time  to  set  up  and  take  a  cup  o'  tea 
with  my  husband  "  ;  an  invitation  she  knew  would  not  be 
accepted,  and  which  she  pressed  accordingly.     "  Ye  better, 


12  COUPON  BONDS. 

Miss  Beswick,  if  only  to  keep  him  company.  Take  off  yer 
things,  won't  ye  1 " 

"  No,  I  don't  go  a-visitin',  to  take  off  my  things  and 
drink  tea,  this  time  o'  night ! " 

Miss  Beswick  condescended,  however,  to  throw  back  the 
shawl  from  her  head,  exposing  to  view  a  long,  sinewy  neck, 
the  strong  lines  of  which  ran  up  into  her  cheeks,  and  ram- 
ified into  wrinkles,  giving  severity  to  her  features.  At  the 
same  time  emerged  from  the  fold  of  the  garment,  as  it 
were,  a  knob,  a  high,  bare  poll,  so  lofty  and  narrow, 
and  destitute  of  the  usual  ornament,  natural  or  false,  that 
you  involuntarily  looked  twice,  to  assure  yourself  that 
it  was  really  that  lovely  and  adorable  object,  a  female 
head. 

"  I  've  jest  run  over  to  tell  you  the  news,"  said  Miss 
Beswick. 

"  Nothing  bad,  I  hope  1 "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  No 
robbers  in  town  1  for  massy  sake  ! "  And  Mrs.  Ducklow 
laid  her  hand  on  her  bosom,  to  make  sure  that  the  bonds 
were  still  there. 

"  No,  good  news,  — good  for  Sophrony,  at  any  rate  !  " 

"  Ah  !  she  has  heard  from  Reuben  ] " 

"  No  !  "  The  severity  of  the  features  was  modified  by  a 
grim  smile.  "  No  !  "  and  the  little,  high  knob  of  a  head 
was  shaken  expressively. 

"  What  then  1 "  Ducklow  inquired. 

"  Reuben  has  come  home  ! "  The  words  were  spoken 
triumphantly,  and  the  keen  gray  eyes  of  the  elderly 
maiden  twinkled. 

"  Come  home  !  home  !  "  echoed  both  Ducklows  at  once, 
in  great  astonishment. 

Miss  Beswick  assured  them  of  the  fact. 

"  My  !  how  you  talk  !  "  exclaimed  ^Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  —     When  did  he  come  1 " 


COUPON   BONDS.  13 

"  About  an  hour  'n'  a  half  ago.  I  happened  to  be  in  to 
Sophrony's.  I  had  jest  gone  over  to  set  a  Httle  while  with 
her  and  keep  her  company,  —  as  I  've  often  done,  she 
seemed  so  lonely,  livin'  there  with  her  two  children  alone 
in  the  house,  her  husband  away  so.  Her  friends  ha'  n't 
been  none  too  attentive  to  her  in  his  absence,  she  thinks, 
—  and  so  I  think." 

"I  —  I  hope  you  don't  mean  that  as  a  hint  to  us,  Miss 
Beswick,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  You  can  take  it  as  such,  or  not,  jest  as  you  please  !  I 
leave  it  to  your  own  consciences.  You  know  best  whuther 
you  have  done  your  duty  to  Sophrony  and  her  family, 
whilst  her  husband  has  been  off  to  the  war ;  and  I  sha'  n't 
set  myself  up  for  a  judge.  You  never  had  any  boys  of  your 
own,  and  so  you  adopted  Reuben,  jest  as  you  have  lately 
adopted  Thaddeus ;  and  I  s'pose  you  think  you  've  done 
well  by  him,  jest  as  you  think  you  will  do  by  Thaddeus, 
if  he 's  a  good  boy,  and  stays  with  you  till  he  's  twenty- 
one." 

"  I  hope  no  one  thinks  or  says  the  contrary,  Miss  Bes- 
wick !  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  gravely,  with  flushed  face. 

"  There  may  be  two  opinions  on  that  subject !  "  said 
Miss  Beswick,  with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  setting  that 
small  and  irregular  spheroid  at  a  still  loftier  and  more 
imposing  altitude.  "Reuben  came  to  you  when  he  was 
jest  old  enough  to  be  of  use  about  the  house  and  on  the 
farm  ;  and  if  I  recollect  right,  you  did  n't  encourage  idle- 
ness in  him  long.  You  did  n't  give  his  hands  much  chance 
to  do  '  some  mischief  still ! '  No,  indeed  !  nobody  can 
accuse  you  of  that  weakness  ! "  And  the  skin  of  the 
wrinkled  features  tightened  with  a  terrible  grin. 

"  Nobody  can  say  we  ever  overworked  the  boy,  or  ill- 
used  him  in  any  way  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow,  ex- 
citedly. 


14  COUrON  BONDS. 

"No  !  I  don't  say  it !  But  this  I  '11  say,  for  I  've  had 
it  in  my  mind  ever  since  Sophrony  was  left  alone,  —  I 
could  n't  help  seein'  and  feelin',  and  now  you  've  set  me 
a-talkin'  I  may  as  well  speak  out.  Reuben  was  always  a 
good  boy,  and  a  willin'  boy,  as  you  yourselves  must  allow ; 
and  he  paid  his  way  from  the  first." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that  ! "  interposed  Mr.  Ducklow, 
taking  up  his  knife  and  fork,  and  dropping  them  again,  in 
no  little  agitation.  "  He  was  a  good  and  willin'  boy,  as 
you  say ;  but  the  expense  of  clothin'  him  and  keepin'  him 
to  school  —  " 

"  He  paid  his  way  from  the  first  ! "  repeated  Miss  Bes- 
wick,  sternly.  "  You  kept  him  to  school  winters,  when  he 
did  more  work  'fore  and  after  school  than  any  other  boy  in 
town.  He  worked  all  the  time  summers ;  and  soon  he 
was  as  good  as  a  hired  man  to  joixx.  He  never  went  to 
school  a  day  after  he  was  fifteen  ;  and  from  that  time  he 
was  better  'n  any  hired  man,  for  he  was  faithful,  and  took 
an  interest,  and  looked  after  and  took  care  of  thino^s  as  no 
hired  man  ever  would  or  could  do,  as  I  've  heard  you  your- 
self say,  Mr.  Ducklow  !  " 

"  Reuben  was  a  good,  faithful  boy  :  I  never  denied  that ! 
I  never  denied  that !  " 

"  Well,  he  stayed  with  you  till  he  was  twenty-one,  —  did 
ye  a  man's  service  for  the  last  five  or  six  years  ;  then  you 
giv'  him  what  you  called  a  settin'  out,  —  a  new  suit  o' 
clothes,  a  yoke  of  oxen,  some  farmin'-tools,  and  a  hundred 
dollars  in  money  !  You,  with  yer  thousands,  Mr.  Ducklow, 
giv'  him  a  hundred  dollars  in  money  !  " 

"  That  was  only  a  beginnin',  only  a  beginnin',  I  've 
always  said  ! "  declared  the  red-flushed  farmer. 

"  I  know  it  \  and  I  s'pose  you  '11  continner  to  say  so  till 
the  day  of  yer  death  !  Then  maybe  you  '11  remember 
Reuben  in  yer  will.     That 's  the  way  !     Keep  puttin'  him 


COUPON  BONDS.  15 

off  as  long  as  you  can  possibly  hold  on  to  your  property 
yourself,  —  then,  when  you  see  you  've  got  to  go  and  leave 
it,  give  him  what  you  ought  to  've  gi'n  him  years  before. 
There  a'n't  no  merit  in  that  kind  o'  justice,  did  ye  know 
it,  Mr.  Ducklow  1  I  tell  ye,  what  belongs  to  Reuben  be- 
longs to  him  noiv,  —  not  ten  or  twenty  year  hence,  when 
you  've  done  with  't,  and  he  most  likely  won't  need  it.  A 
few  hundred  dollars  now  '11  be  more  useful  to  him  than  all 
your  thousands  will  be  bime-by.  After  he  left  you,  he 
took  the  Moseley  farm ;  everybody  respected  him,  every- 
body trusted  him  ;  he  was  doin'  well,  everybody  said ;  then 
he  married  Sophron}^,  and  a  good  and  faithful  wife  she's 
been  to  him ;  and  finally  he  concluded  to  buy  the  farm, 
which  you  yourself  said  was  a  good  idee,  and  encouraged 
him  in 't." 

"  So  it  was  ;  Reuben  used  judgment  in  that,  and  he  'd 
have  got  along  well  enough  if 't  had  n't  been  for  the  war," 
said  Mr.  Ducklow  ;  while  his  wife  sat  dumb,  not  daring  to 
measure  tongues  with  their  vigorous-minded  and  plain- 
speaking  neighbor. 

"Jest  so  !  "  said  Miss  Beswick.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  war !  He  had  made  his  first  payments,  and  would  have 
met  the  rest  as  they  came  due,  no  doubt  of  it.  But  the 
war  broke  out,  and  he  left  all  to  sarve  his  country.  Says  he, 
'  I  'm  an  able-bodied  man,  and  I  ought  to  go,'  says  he.  His 
business  was  as  important,  and  his  wife  and  children  was 
as  dear  to  him,  as  anybody's ;  but  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
go,  and  he  went.  They  did  n't  give  no  such  big  bounties 
to  volunteers  then  as  they  do  now,  and  it  was  a  sacrifice 
to  him  every  way  when  he  enlisted.  But  says  he,  '  I  '11 
jest  do  my  duty,'  says  he,  '  and  trust  to  Providence  for  the 
rest.'  You  did  n't  disconreige  his  goin',  —  and  you  did  n't 
wcourage  him,  neither,  the  way  you  'd  ought  to." 

"  My  !   what  on  'arth,  Miss  Beswick  !  —  Seems  to  me 


16  COUPON  BONDS. 

you  're  takin'  it  upon  yourself  to  s.ay  things  that  are  un- 
called for,  to  say  the  least  !  I  can't  understand  what 
should  have  sent  you  here,  to  tell  me  what 's  my  business, 
and  what  a'n't,  this  fashion.  As  if  I  did  n't  know  my  own 
duty  and  intentions  !  "  And  Mr.  Ducklow  poured  his  tea 
into  his  plate,  and  buttered  his  bread  with  a  teaspoon. 

"  I  s'pose  she 's  been  talking  with  Sophrony,  and  she  has 
sent  her  to  interfere." 

"  Mis'  Ducklow,  you  don't  s'pose  no  such  thing  !  You 
know  Sophrony  would  n't  send  anybody  on  such  an  arrant ; 
and  you  know  I  a'n't  a  person  to  do  such  arrants,  or  be 
made  a  cat's-paw  of  by  anybody.  I  a'n't  handsome,  not 
partic'larly ;  and  I  a'n't  wuth  my  thousands,  like  some  folks 
I  know ;  and  I  never  got  married,  for  the  best  reason  in 
the  world,  — them  that  offered  themselves  I  would  n't 
have,  and  them  I  would  have  had  did  n't  offer  themselves ; 
and  I  a'n't  so  good  a  Christian  as  I  might  be,  I  'm  aware. 
I  know  my  lacks  as  well  as  anybody  ;  but  bein'  a  spy  and 
a  cat's-paw  a'n't  one  of  'em.  I  don't  do  things  sly  and 
underhand.  If  I  've  anything  to  say  to  anybody,  I  go 
right  to  'em,  and  say  it  to  their  face,  —  sometimes  perty 
blunt,  I  allow.  But  I  don't  wait  to  be  sent  by  other  folks. 
I  've  a  mind  o'  my  own,  and  my  own  way  o'  doin'  things, 
—  that  you  know  as  well  as  anybody.  So,  when  you  say 
you  s'pose  Sophrony  or  anybody  else  sent  me  here  to  in- 
terfere, I  say  you  s'pose  what  a'n't  true,  and  what  you 
know  a'n't  true,  Mis'  Ducklow ! " 

Mrs.  Ducklow  was  annihilated,  and  the  visitor  went  on. 

*'As  for  you,  Mr.  Ducklow,  I  haven't  said  you  douH 
know  your  own  duty  and  intentions.  I  've  no  doubt  3'ou 
think  you  do,  at  any  rate." 

"  Very  well !  then  why  can't  you  leave  me  to  do  what 
I  think 's  my  duty?  Everybody  ought  to  have  that 
privilege." 


COUPON  BONDS.  17 

"You  think  so  r' 

"  Sartin,  Miss  Beswick  ;  don't  you  1 " 

"Why,  then,  /  ought  to  have  the  same." 

"Of  course;  nobody  in  this  house '11  prevent  your 
doin'  what  you're  satisfied  's  your  duty." 

"  Thank  ye  !  much  obleeged  ! "  said  Miss  Beswick, 
with  gleaming,  gristly  features.  "  That 's  all  I  ask.  Now 
I  'm  satisfied  it 's  my  duty  to  tell  ye  what  I  've  been 
tellin'  ye,  and  what  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  ye  :  that 's  m?/  duty. 
And  then  it  '11  be  7/02tr  duty  to  do  what  yoii  think  's  right. 
That 's  plain,  a'n't  it  1 " 

"  Wal,  wal  !  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  discomfited ;  "  I  can't 
hinder  yer  talkin',  I  s'pose ;  though  it  seems  a  man  ought 
to  have  a  right  to  peace  and  quiet  in  his  own  house." 

"  Yes,  and  in  his  own  conscience  too  !  "  said  Miss  Bes- 
wick. "  And  if  you  'il  hearken  to  me  now,  I  promise  you 
'11  have  peace  and  quiet  in  your  conscience,  and  in  your 
house  too,  such  as  you  never  have  had  yit.  I  s'pose  you 
know  your  great  fault,  don't  ye  1  Graspin',  —  that 's  your 
fault,  that 's  your  besettin'  sin,  Mr.  Ducklow.  You  used 
to  give  it  as  an  excuse  for  not  helpin'  Reuben  more,  that 
you  had  your  daughter  to  provide  for.  Well,  your  daughter 
has  got  married  ;  she  married  a  rich  man, — you  looked 
out  for  that,  —  and  she 's  provided  for,  fur  as  property  can 
provide  for  any  one.  Now,  without  a  child  in  the  world 
to  feel  anxious  about,  you  keep  layin'  up  and  layin'  up, 
and  '11  continner  to  lay  up,  I  s'pose,  till  ye  die,  and  leave  a 
great  fortin'  to  your  daughter,  that  already  has  enough, 
and  jest  a  pittance  to  Reuben  and  Thaddeus." 

"  No,  no.  Miss  Beswick !  you  're  wrong,  you  're  wrong, 
Miss  Beswick  !  I  mean  to  do  the  handsome  thing  by  both 
on  'em." 

"  Mean  to  !  ye  mean  to  !  That 's  the  way  ye  flatter  ycr 
conscience,   and    cheat  ycr  own    soul.     Why  don't  yc  do 


18  COUPON  BONDS. 

what  ye  mean  to  do  to  once,  and  make  sure  on 't  1  That 's 
the  way  to  git  the  good  of  your  property.  I  tell  ye,  the 
time  's  Gomin'  when  the  recollection  of  havin'  done  a  good 
action  will  be  a  gi-eater  comfort  to  ye  than  all  the  prop- 
erty in  the  world.  Then  you  11  look  back  and  say,  '  Why 
didn't  I  do  this  and  do  that  with  my  money,  when  't  was 
in  my  power,  'stead  of  hoardin'  up  and  hoardin'  up  for 
others  to  spend  after  me?'  Now,  as  I  was  goin'  to  say, 
ye  didn't  c?iscourage  Reuben's  enlistin',  and  ye  didn't 
^;iCOurage  him  the  way  ye  might.  You  ought  to  've  said 
to  him,  '  Go,  Reuben,  if  ye  see  it  to  be  yer  duty  ;  and,  as 
fur  as  money  goes,  ye  sha'  n't  suffer  for 't.  I  've  got 
enough  for  all  on  us ;  and  I  '11  pay  yer  debts,  if  need  be, 
and  see  't  yer  fam'ly  's  kep'  comf'table  while  ye  're  away.' 
But  that 's  jest  what  ye  did  n't  say,  and  it 's  jest  what  ye 
did  n't  do.  All  the  time  Reuben  's  been  sarvin'  his  coim- 
try,  he  's  had  his  debts  and  his  family  expenses  to  wony 
him  ;  and  you  know  it 's  been  all  Sophrony  could  do,  by 
puttin'  forth  all  her  energies,  and  strainin'  every  narve,  to 
keep  herself  and  children  from  goin'  hungry  and  ragged. 
You  've  helped  'em  a  little  now  and  then,  in  driblets,  it 's 
true ;  but,  dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Beswick ;  and  she 
smote  her  hands,  palms  downwards,  upon  her  lap,  with  a 
look  and  gesture  which  signified  that  words  utterly  failed 
to  express  her  feelings  on  the  subject. 

Mrs.  Ducklow,  who,  since  her  annihilation,  had  scarcely 
ventured  to  look  up,  sat  biting  her  lips,  drawing  quick 
breaths  of  suppressed  anger  and  impatience,  and  sewing 
the  patch  to  the  trousers  and  to  her  own  apron  under  them. 
There  was  an  awful  silence,  broken  only  by  the  clock  tick- 
ing, and  Mr.  Ducklow  lifting  his  knife  and  fork  and  let- 
ting them  fall  again.     At  last  he  forced  himself  to  speak. 

"  Wal,  you  've  read  us  a  pretty  smart  lectur',  Miss  Bes- 
wick, I  must  say.     I  can't  consaive  what  should  make  ye 


COUPON  BONDS.  19 

take  such  an  interest  in  our  affixirs  ;  but  it 's  very  kind  in 
ye,  —  very  kind,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  Take  an  interest !  Have  n't  I  seen  Sophrony's  strug- 
gles with  them  children  1  And  have  n't  I  seen  Reuben 
come  home  this  very  night,  a  sick  man,  with  a  broken 
constitution,  and  no  prospect  before  him  but  to  give  up 
his  farm,  lose  all  he  has  paid,  and  be  thrown  upon  the 
charities  of  the  world  with  his  wife  and  children  1  And  if 
the  charities  of  friends  are  so  cold,  what  can  he  expect 
of  the  charities  of  the  world  1  Take  an  interest !  I  wish 
you  took  half  as  much.  Here  I  've  sot  half  an  hour,  and 
you  have  n't  thought  to  ask  how  Reuben  appeared,  or  any- 
thing about  him." 

"  Maybe  there 's  a  good  reason  for  that,  Miss  Beswick. 
'T  was  on  my  lips  to  ask  half  a  dozen  times  ;  but  you 
talked  so  fast,  you  would  n't  give  me  a  chance." 

**  Well,  I  'm  glad  you  've  got  some  excuse,  though  a  poor 
one,"  said  Miss  Beswick. 

"  How  is  Reuben  1 "  Mrs.  Ducklow  meekly  inquired. 

"  All  broken  to  pieces,  —  a  mere  shadder  of  w^hat  he 
was.  He  's  had  his  old  wound  troublin'  him  ag'in  ;  then 
he  's  had  the  fever,  that  come  within  one  of  takin'  him  out 
o'  the  world.  He  was  in  the  hospitals,  ye  know,  for  two 
months  or  more  ;  but  finally  the  doctors  see  't  was  his 
only  chance  to  be  sent  homer,  weak  as  he  was.  A  sergeant 
that  was  comin'  on  brought  him  all  the  way,  and  took 
him  straight  home;  and  that's  the  reason  he  got  along 
so  sudden  and  unexpected,  even  to  Sophrony.  0,  if  you 
could  seen  their  meetin',  as  I  did  !  then  you  would  n't 
sneer  at  my  takin'  an  interest."  And  Miss  Beswick, 
strong-minded  as  she  was,  found  it  necessary  to  make 
use  of  her  handkerchief.  "  I  did  n't  stop  only  to  help  put 
him  to  bed,  and  fix  things  a  little  ;  then  I  left  'em  alone, 
and  run  over  to  tell  ye.     It 's  a  pity  you  did  n't  know  he 


20  COUPON  BONDS. 

was  in  town  when  you  was  there  to-day,  so  as  to  bring  him 
home  with  ye.  But  I  s'pose  you  had  your  investments  to 
look  after.  Come,  now,  Mr.  Ducklow,  how  many  thousan' 
dollars  have  you  invested,  since  Reuben 's  been  off  to  war, 
and  his  folks  have  been  sufFerin'  to  home  1  You  may  have 
been  layin'  up  hundreds,  or  even  thousands,  that  way,  this 
very  day,  for  aught  I  know.  But  let  me  tell  ye,  you  won't 
git  no  good  of  such  property,  —  it  '11  only  be  a  cuss  to  ye, 
—  till  you  do  the  right  thing  by  Reuben.  Mark  my 
word  ! " 

There  was  another  long  silence. 

"  Ye  a'n't  going,  be  ye,  Miss  Beswick  ?"  said  Mrs.  Duck- 
low,  —  for  the  visitor  had  arisen.     "  What 's  yer  hurry  1 " 

"  No  hurry  at  all ;  but  I  've  done  my  arrant  and  said 
my  say,  and  may  as  well  be  goin'.  Good  night.  Good 
night,  Mr.  Ducklow." 

And  Miss  Beswick,  pulling  her  shawl  over  her  head, 
stalked  out  of  the  house  like  some  tall,  gaunt  spectre,  leav- 
ing the  Ducklows  to  recover  as  best  they  could  from  the 
consternation  into  which  they  had  been  thrown  by  her 
cominor. 


III. 

A   COMFORTABLE   INVESTMENT. 

"  Dm  you  ever  ? "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  gaining  courage 
to  speak  after  the  visitor  was  out  of  hearing. 

"  She  's  got  a  tongue  ! "  said  Mr.  Ducklow. 

"  Strange  she  should  speak  of  your  investing  money  to- 
day !     D'  ye  s'pose  she  knows  1 " 

"  I  don't  see  how  she  can  know."  And  Mr.  Ducklow 
paced  the  room  in  deep  trouble.     "  I  've  been  careful  not 


COUPON  BONDS.  21 

to  give  a  hint  on 't  to  anybody,  for  I  knew  jest  what  folks 
would  say  :  '  If  Ducklow  has  got  so  much  money  to  dis- 
pose of,  he  'd  better  give  Reuben  a  lift.'  I  know  how  folks 
talk." 

"  Coming  here  to  browbeat  us  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Duck- 
low.  "  I  wonder  ye  did  n't  be  a  little  more  plain  with  her, 
father !  I  would  n't  have  sot  and  been  dictated  to  as 
tamely  as  you  did  ! " 

"  You  would  n't  %  Then  why  did  ye  %  She  dictated  to 
you  as  much  as  she  did  to  me  ;  and  you  source  opened 
your  head ;  you  did  n't  dars'  to  say  yer  soul  was  your 
own ! " 

"Yes,  I  did,  I  —  " 

"You  ventur'd  to  speak  once,  and  she  shet  ye  up 
quicker  'n  lightnin'.  Now  tell  about  you  would  n't  have 
sot  and  been  dictated  to  like  a  tame  noodle,  as  I  did ! " 

"  I  did  n't  say  a  tame  noodle^ 

"  Yes,  ye  did.  I  might  have  answered  back  sharp 
enough,  but  I  was  expectin'  you  to  speak.  Men  don't  like 
to  dispute  with  womeny 

"  That 's  your  git-off,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  trembling 
with  vexation.  "  You  was  jest  as  much  afraid  of  her  as  I 
was.     I  never  see  ye  so  cowed  in  all  my  life." 

"  Cowed  !  I  was  n't  cowed,  neither.  How  unreasonable, 
now,  for  you  to  cast  all  the  blame  on  to  me  ! " 

And  Mr.  Ducklow,  his  features  contracted  into  a  black 
scowl,  took  his  boots  from  the  corner. 

"  Ye  ha'n't  got  to  go  out,  have  ye  1 "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 
"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  put  on  yer  boots  jest  to  step  to 
the  barn  and  see  to  the  hoss." 

"  I  'm  goin'  over  to  Reuben's." 

"  To  Reuben's  !     Not  to-night,  father  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  better.  He  and  Sophrony  '11  know  we 
heard  of  his  gittin'  home,  and  they  're    enough   inclined 


22  COUPON  BONDS. 

a'ready  to  feel  we  neglect  'em.  Have  n't  ye  got  somethin' 
ye  can  send  1 " 

"I  don't  know,"  —  curtly.  "I've  scurce  ever  been 
over  to  Sophrony's  but  I  've  carried  her  a  pie  or  cake  or 
something ;  and  mighty  little  thanks  I  got  for  it,  as  it 
turns  out." 

"  Why  did  n't  ye  say  that  to  Miss  Beswick,  when  she 
was  runnin'  us  so  hard  about  our  never  doin'  anything  for 
'emr' 

"'T  would  n't  have  done  no  good;  I  knew  jest  what 
she  'd  say.  '  What 's  a  pie  or  a  cake  now  and  then  1 '  — 
that 's  jest  the  reply  she  'd  have  made.  Dear  me  !  What 
have  I  been  doing  1 " 

Mrs.  Ducklow,  rising,  had  but  just  discovered  that  she 
had  stitched  the  patch  and  the  trousers  to  her  aj^ron. 

"  So  much  for  Miss  Beswick  !  "  she  exclaimed,  untying 
the  apron-strings,  and  flinging  the  united  garments  spite- 
fully down  upon  a  chair.  "  I  do  wish  such  folks  would 
mind  their  own  business  and  stay  to  home  !  " 

"  You  've  got  the  bonds  safe  1 "  said  Mr.  Ducklow, 
putting  on  his  overcoat. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  won't  engage  to  keep  'em  safe.  They 
make  me  as  narvous  as  can  be.  I  'm  afraid  to  be  left 
alone  in  the  house  with  'em.     Here,  you  take  'em." 

"  Don't  be  foolish.  What  harm  can  possibly  happen  to 
them  or  you  while  I  'm  away  1  You  don't  s'pose  I  want  to 
lug  them  around  with  me  wherever  I  go,  do  ye  1 " 

"  I  'm  sure  it's  no  great  lug.  I  s'pose  you  're  afraid  to 
go  acrost  the  fields  alone  with  'em  in  yer  pocket.  What 
in  the  world  we  're  going  to  do  with  'em  I  don't  see.  If 
we  go  out  we  can't  take  'em  with  us,  for  fear  of  losing  'em, 
or  of  being  robbed ;  and  we  sha'  n't  dare  to  leave  'em  to 
home,  fear  the  house  '11  burn  up  or  git  broke  into." 

"  We  can  hide  'em  where  no  burglar  can  find  'em,"  said 
Mr.  Ducklow. 


COUPON  BONDS.  23 

"  Yes,  and  where  nobody  else  can  find  'em,  neither,  pro- 
vided the  house  burns  and  neighbors  come  in  to  save 
things.  I  don't  know  but  it  '11  be  about  as  Miss  Beswick 
said  :  we  sha'  n  t  take  no  comfort  with  property  we  ought 
to  make  over  to  Reuben." 

"  Do  you  think  it  ought  to  be  made  over  to  Reuben  1 
If  you  do,  it 's  new  to  me." 

*'  No,  I  don't  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Ducklow,  decidedly.  "  I 
guess  we  better  put  'em  in  .  the  clock-case  for  to-night, 
had  n't  we  1 " 

"  Jest  where  they  'd  be  discovered,  if  the  house  is  robbed ! 
No  :  I  've  an  idee.  Slip  'em  under  the  settin'-room  car- 
pet. Let  me  take  'em  :  I  can  fix  a  place  right  here  by  the 
side  of  the  door." 

With  great  care  and  secrecy  the  bonds  were  deposited 
between  the  carpet  and  the  floor,  and  a  chair  set  over 
them. 

"  What  noise  was  that  1 "  said  the  farmer,  starting. 

"  Thaddeus,"  cried  Mrs.  Ducklow,  "  is  that  you  % " 

It  was  Thaddeus,  indeed,  who,  awaking  from  a  real 
dream  of  the  drum  this  time,  and,  hearing  conversation  in 
the  room  below,  had  once  more  descended  the  stairs  to  lis- 
ten. What  were  the  old  people  hiding  there  under  the 
carpet  1  It  must  be  those  curious  things  in  the  envelope. 
And  what  tvere  those  things,  about  which  so  much  mystery 
seemed  necessary'?  Taddy  was  peeping  and  considering, 
when  he  heard  his  name  called.  He  would  have  glided 
back  to  bed  again,  but  Mrs.  Ducklow,  who  sprang  to  the 
stairway  door,  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  now  1 "  she  demanded. 

"I  —  I  want  you  to  scratch  my  back,"  said  Taddy. 

As  he  had  often  come  to  her  with  this  innocent  request, 
after  undressing  for  bed,  he  did  not  see  why  the  excuse 
would  not  pass  as  readily  as  the  previous  one  of  somnam- 


24  COUPON  BONDS. 

bulism.  But  Mrs.  Ducklow  was  in  no  mood  to  be  trifled 
with. 

"  I  '11  scratch  your  back  for  ye  !  "  And  seizing  her  rat- 
tan, she  laid  it  smartly  on  the  troublesome  part,  to  the 
ten'or  and  pain  of  poor  Taddy,  who  concluded  that  too 
much  of  a  good  thing  was  decidedly  worse  than  nothing. 
"  There,  you  sir,  that 's  a  scratching  that  '11  last  ye  for 
one  while  I  " 

And  giving  him  two  or  three  parting  cuts,  not  confined 
to  the  region  of  the  back,  but  falling  upon  the  lower  lati- 
tudes, which  they  marked  like  so  many  geographical  par- 
allels, she  dismissed  him  with  a  sharp  injunction  not  to  let 
himself  be  seen  or  heard  again  that  night. 

Taddy  obeyed,  and,  crying  himself  to  sleep,  dreamed 
that  he  was  himself  a  drum,  and  that  Mrs.  Ducklow  beat 
him. 

"  Father ! "  called  Mrs.  Ducklow  to  her  husband,  w^ho 
was  at  the  barn,  "  do  you  know  what  time  it  is  *?  It 's 
nine  o'clock  !  I  would  n't  think  of  going  over  there  to- 
night ;  they  '11  be  all  locked  up,  and  abed  and  asleep,  like 
as  not." 

"  Wal,  I  s'pose  I  must  do  as  you  say,"  replied  Mr.  Duck- 
low, glad  of  an  excuse  not  to  go,  —  Miss  Beswick's  visit 
having  left  him  in  extremely  low  spirits. 

Accordingly,  after  bedding  down  the  horse  and  fostening 
the  barn,  he  returned  to  the  kitchen ;  and  soon  the  pros- 
perous couple  retired  to  rest. 

"  Why,  how  res'less  you  be  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  "  What  's  the  reason  ye  can't 
sleep  r' 

"  I  don't  know,"  groaned  Mr.  Ducklow.  "  I  can't  help 
thinkin'  o'  Miss  Beswick.  I  never  was  so  worked  at  any 
little  thing." 

"  Well,  well  !  forget  it,  father ;  and  do  go  to  sleep  !  " 


COUPON  BONDS.  25 

"  I  feel  I  ought  to  have  gone  over  to  Reuben's  !  And  I 
should  have  gone,  if  't  had  n't  been  for  you." 

*'  Now  how  unreasonable  to  blame  me ! "  said  Mrs. 
Ducklow.  "  Ye  might  have  gone  ;  I  only  reminded  ye 
how  late  it  was."  . 

Mr.  Ducklow  groaned,  and  turned  over.  He  tried  to 
forget  Miss  Beswick,  Reuben,  and  the  bonds,  and  at  last  he 
fell  asleep. 

"Father  !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Ducklow,  awaking  him. 

"  What 's  the  matter  1 " 

"  I  think  —  I  'm  pretty  sure  —  hark  !  I  heard  some- 
thing sounded  like  somebody  gitting  into  the  kitchen 
winder !  " 

"  It 's  your  narvousness."  Yet  Mr.  Ducklow  listened 
for  further  indications  of  burglary.  "Why  can't  ye  be 
quiet  and  go  to  sleep,  as  you  said  to  me  1 " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  heard  something  !  Anybody  might  have 
looked  through  the  blinds  and  seen  us  putting  —  you 
know  —  under  the  carpet." 

"  Nonsense  !  't  a'n't  at  all  likely." 

But  Mr.  Ducklow  was  more  alarmed  than  he  was  willing 
to  confess.  He  succeeded  in  quieting  his  wife's  apprehen- 
sions ;  but  at  the  same  time  the  burden  of  solicitude  and 
wakefulness  seemed  to  pass  from  her  mind  only  to  rest 
upon  his  own.  She  soon  after  fell  asleep;  but  he  lay 
awake,  hearing  burglars  in  all  parts  of  the  house  for  an 
hour  longer. 

"  What  now  1 "  suddenly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow,  start- 
ing up  in  bed. 

"  I  thought  I  might  as  well  git  up  and  satisfy  myself," 
replied  her  husband,  in  a  low,  agitated  voice. 

He  had  risen,  and  was  groping  his  way  to  the  kitch- 
en. 

"  Is  there  anything]"  she  inquired,  after  listening  long 
2 


26  COUPON  BOXDS. 

with  chilling  blood,  expecting  at  each  moment  to  hear  him 
knocked  down  or  throttled. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  presently  came  gliding  softly 
back  again. 

"  I  can't  find  nothin'.  But  I  never  in  all  my  life  heard 
the  floors  creak  so  !  I  could  have  sworn  there  was  some- 
body walkin'  over  'em  !  " 

"  I  guess  you  're  a  little  excited,  a'n't  ye  % " 

"  No,  —  I  got  over  that ;  but  I  did  hear  noises  !  " 

]\Ir.  Ducklow,  returning  to  his  pillow,  dismissed  his 
fears,  and  once*  more  composed  his  mind  for  slumber. 
But  the  burden  of  which  he  had  temporarily  relieved  his 
wife  now  returned  with  redoubled  force  to  the  bosom  of 
that  virtuous  lady.  It  seemed  as  if  there  was  only  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  available  sleep  in  the  house,  and  that, 
when  one  had  it,  the  other  must  go  without ;  while  -at  the 
same  time  a  swarm  of  fears  perpetually  buzzed  in  and  out 
of  the  mind,  whose  windows  wakefulness  left  open. 

"Father!"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  giving  him  a  violent 
shake. 

"  Hey  ?  what  *?  "  —  arousing  from  his  first  sound  sleep. 

"  Don't  you  smell  something  burning  ]  " 

Ducklow  snuffed  ;  Mrs.  Ducklow  snuffed  ;  they  sat  up 
in  bed,  and  snuffed  vivaciously  in  concert. 

*'  Xo,  I  can't  say  I  do.     Did  you  ? " 

"  Jest  as  plain  as  ever  I  smelt  anything  in  my  life  !  But 
I  don't  so  "  —  snuff,  snuff —  "  not  quite  so  distinct  now." 

"  Seems  to  me  I  do  smell  somethin',''  said  Mr.  Ducklow, 
imagination  coming  to  his  aid.  "  It  can't  be  the  matches, 
can  it  ] " 

"  I  thought  of  the  matches,  but  I  certainly  covered  'em 
up  tight." 

They  snuffed  again,  —  first  one,  then  the  other,  —  now  a 
series  of  quick,  short  snuffs,  then  one  long,  deep  snuff,  then 


COUPON  BONDS.  27 

a  snuff  by  both  together,  as  if  by  uniting  their  energies, 
like  two  persons  pulhng  at  a  rope,  they  might  accomplish 
what  neither  was  equal  to  singly. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ducklow. 

"  Why,  what,  father  1 " 

"  It 's  Thaddeus  !  He 's  been  walkin'  in  his  sleep. 
That 's  what  we  heard.  And  now  he  's  got  the  matches 
and  set  the  house  afire  !  " 

He  bounded  out  of  bed;  he  went  stumbling  over  the 
»  chairs  in  the  kitchen,  and  clattering  among  the  tins  in  the 
pantry,  and  rushing  blindly  and  wildly  up  the  kitchen 
stairs,  only  to  find  the  matches  all  right,  Taddy  fast  asleep, 
and  no  indications  anywhere,  either  to  eye  or  nostril,  of 
anything  burning. 

"  'T  w^as  all  your  imagination,  mother." 

"  3ft/  imagination  !  You  was  jest  as  frightened  as  I  was. 
I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell  what  it  was  I  smelt ;  I  can't  smell  it 
now.     Did  you  feel  for  the  —  you  know  what  1 " 

Mrs.  Ducklow  seemed  to  think  there  were  evil  ones  lis- 
tening, and  it  was  dangerous  to  mention  by  name  what  was 
uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both. 

"  I  wish  you  would  ^e^t  put  your  hand  and  see  if  they  're 
all  right ;  for  I  've  thought  several  times  I  heard  somebody 
taking  on  'em  out." 

Mr.  Ducklow  had  been  troubled  by  similar  fancies ;  so, 
getting  down  on  his  knees,  he  felt  in  the  dark  for  the  bonds. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  he  ejaculated. 

"  What  now  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  They  a'n't  gone, 
be  they  1     You  don't  say  they  're  gone  !  " 

"  Sure  's  the  w^orld  !  —  No,  here  they  be  !  I  did  n't  feel 
in  the  right  place." 

"  How  you  did  frighten  me  !  Lly  heart  almost  hopped 
out  of  my  mouth  ! "  Indeed,  the  shock  was  sufficient  to 
keep  the  good  woman  awake  the  rest  of  the  night. 


28  COUPON  BONDS. 

IV. 

THE   RETURNED   SOLDIER. 

Daylight  the  next  morning  dissipated  their  doubts,  and 
made  both  feel  that  they  had  been  the  victims  of  unneces- 
sary and  foohsh  alarms. 

"  I  hope  ye  won't  git  so  worked  up  another  night,"  said 
Mr.  Ducklow.  "  It 's  no  use.  We  might  live  in  the  house 
a  hundred  years,  and  never  hear  of  a  robber  or  a  fire.  Ye 
only  excite  yerself,  and  keep  me  awake." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  if  you  did  n't  git  excited,  and  rob 
me  of  my  sleep  jest  as  much  as  I  did  you  !  "  retorted  the 
indignant  housewife. 

"You  began  it;  you  fust  put  it  into  my  head.  But 
never  mind  ;  it  can't  be  helped  now.  Le'  's  have  breakfast 
as  soon  as  ye  can ;  then  I  '11  run  over  and  see  Reuben." 

"  Why  not  harness  up,  and  let  me  ride  over  with  ye  1 " 

"  Very  well ;  mabby  that  '11  be  the  best  way.  Come, 
Taddy,  ye  must  wake  up.  Fly  round.  You  '11  have  lots  o' 
chores  to  do  this  mornin'." 

"  What 's  the  matter  'th  my  breeches '? "  snarled  Taddy. 
*'  Some  plaguy  thing  's  stuck  to  'em  !  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Ducklow's  apron,  trailing  behind  him  at 
half-mast,  —  at  sight  of  which,  and  of  Taddy  turning  round 
and  round  to  look  at  it,  like  a  kitten  in  pursuit  of  her  own 
tail,  Ducklow  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  Wal,  wal,  mother  !  you  've  done  it !  You  're  dressed 
for  meetin'  now,    Taddy  !  " 

"  I  do  declare  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  mortified.  "  I 
can't,  for  the  life  of  me,  see  what  there  is  so  very  funny 
about  it !  "  And  she  hastened  to  cut  short  Taddy's  trail 
and  her  husband's  laughter  with  a  pair  of  scissors. 


COUPON  BONDS.  29 

After  breakffist  the  Ducklows  set  off  in  the  one-horse 
wagon,  leaving  Taddj  to  take  care  of  the  house  during  their 
absence.  That  each  felt  secretly  uneasy  about  the  coupon 
bonds  cannot  be  denied  ;  but,  after  the  experiences  of  the 
night  and  the  recriminations  of  the  morning,  they  were  un- 
willing to  acknowledge  their  fears  even  to  themselves,  and 
much  less  to  each  other ;  so  the  precious  papers  were  left 
hidden  under  the  carpet. 

"  Safe  enough,  in  all  conscience  !  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow. 

"  Taddy  !  Taddy  !  now  mind  !  "  Mrs.  Ducklow  repeated 
for  the  twentieth  time.  "  Don't  you  leave  the  house,  and 
don't  you  touch  the  matches  nor  the  fire,  and  don't  go  to 
ransacking  the  rooms  neither.     You  won't,  will  ye  1 " 

"  No  'm,"  answered  Taddy,  also  for  the  twentieth  time,  — 
secretly  resolved,  all  the  while,  to  take  advantage  of  their 
absence,  and  discover,  if  possible,  what  Mr.  Ducklow  brought 
home  last  night  in  his  boot-leg. 

The  Ducklows  had  intended  to  show  their  zeal  and  affec- 
tion by  making  Reuben  an  early  visit.  They  were  some- 
w^hat  chagrined,  therefore,  to  find  several  neighbors  already 
arrived  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  returned  soldier.  The 
fact  that  Miss  Beswick  was  among  the  number  did  not 
serve  greatly  to  heighten  their  spirits. 

"  I  've  as  good  a  notion  to  turn  round  and  go  straight 
home  again  as  ever  I  had  to  eat ! "  muttered  Mrs.  Duck- 
low. 

"  It 's  too  late  now,"  said  her  husband,  advancing  with 
a  show  of  confidence  and  cordiality  he  did  not  feel.  "  Wal, 
Reuben  !  glad  to  see  ye  !  glad  to  see  ye  !  This  is  a  joyful 
day  I  scurce  ever  expected  to  see  !  Why,  ye  don't  look  so 
sick  as  I  thought  ye  would  !     Does  he,  mother  1 " 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  her  woman's  nature, 
and  perhaps  her  old  motherly  feelings  for  their  adopted 
son,  deeply  moved  by  the  sight  of  his  changed  and  wasted 


30  COUPON   BONDS. 

aspect.  "  I  'd  no  idee  he  could  be  so  very,  so  very  pale 
and  thin  !     Had  you,  Sophrony  ]  " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  thought,"  said  the  young  w4fe, 
standing  by,  watching  her  returned  volunteer  with  features 
surcharged  with  emotion,  —  deep  suffering  and  sympathy, 
suffused  and  lighted  up  by  love  and  joy.  "I  only  know  I 
have  him  now !  He  has  come  home  !  He  shall  never 
leave  me  again,  —  never  ! " 

"  But  was  n't  it  terrible  to  see  him  brought  home  so  1 " 
whispered  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Yes,  it  was  !  But,  oh,  I  was  so  thankful !  I  felt  the 
worst  was  over ;  and  I  had  him  again  !  I  can  nurse  him 
now.  He  is  no  longer  hundreds  of  miles  away,  among 
strangers,  where  I  cannot  go  to  him,  —  though  I  should 
have  gone  long  ago,  as  you  know,  if  I  could  have  raised  the 
means,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  children." 

"I  —  I  —  Mr.  Ducklow  would  have  tried  to  help  you  to 
the  means,  and  I  would  have  taken  the  children,  if  we  had 
thought  it  best  for  you  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  But 
you  see  now  it  was  n't  best,  don't  you  1 " 

"Whether  it  was  or  not,  I  don't  complain.  I  am  too 
happy  to-day  to  complain  of  anything.  To  see  him  home 
again  !  But  I  have  dreamt  so  often  that  he  came  home, 
and  woke  up  to  find  it  was  only  a  dream,  I'm  half  afraid 
now  to  be  as  happy  as  I  might  be." 

"  Be  as  happy  as  you  please,  Sophrony ! "  spoke  up 
Reuben,  who  had  seemed  to  be  listening  to  Mr.  Ducklow's 
apologies  for  not  coming  over  the  night  before,  while  he 
was  in  reality  straining  his  ear  to  catch  every  word  his 
wife  was  saying.  He  w^as  dressed  in  his  uniform  and  lying 
on  a  lounge,  supported  by  pillows.  "I'm  just  where  I 
want  to  be,  of  all  places  in  this  world,  —  or  the  next  world 
either,  I  may  say;  for  I  can't  conceive  of  any  greater 
heaven  than  I  'm  in  now.     I  'm  going  to  get  well,  too,  spite 


COUPON  BONDS.  31 

of  the  doctors.  Coming  home  is  the  best  medicine  for  a 
fellow  in  my  condition.  Not  bad  to  take,  either  !  Stand 
here,  Ruby,  my  boy,  and  let  yer  daddy  look  at  ye  again  ! 
To  think  that 's  my  Ruby,  Pa  Ducklow  !  Why,  he  was  a 
mere  baby  when  I  w^ent  away  ! " 

''  Reuben  !  Reuben  !  "  entreated  the  young  wife,  leaning 
over  him,  "  you  are  talking  too  much.  You  promised  me 
you  would  n't,  you  know." 

"Well,  well,  I  won't.  But  when  a  fellow's  heart  is  chock- 
full,  it 's  hard  to  shut  down  on  it  sometimes.  Don't  look 
so,  friends,  as  if  ye  pitied  me  !  I  a'n't  to  be  pitied.  I  '11  bet 
there  is  n't  one  of  ye  half  as  happy  as  I  am  at  this  minute  !  " 

"  Here  's  Miss  Beswick,  Mother  Ducklow,"  said  Sophronia/ 
"  Have  n't  you  noticed  her  % " 

"  Oh  !  how  do  you  do.  Miss  Beswick  %  "  said  Mrs.  Duck- 
low, appearing  surprised. 

"  Tryin'  to  keep  out  o'  the  way,  and  make  myself  useful," 
replied  Miss  Beswick,  stiffly. 

"- 1  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  her,"  said 
Sophronia,  as  the  tall  spinster  disappeared.  "  She  took 
right  hold  and  helped  me  last  night ;  then  she  came  in 
again  the  first  thing  this  morning.  *  Go  to  your  husband,' 
says  she  to  me ;  '  don't  leave  him  a  minute.  I  know  he 
don't  want  ye  out  of  his  sight,  —  and  you  don't  want  to 
be  out  of  his  sight,  either  ;  so  you  'tend  right  to  him,  and 
I  '11  do  the  work.  There  '11  be  enough  folks  comin'  in  to 
hender,  but  I  've  come  in  to  help,'  says  she.  And  here 
she 's  been  ever  since,  hard  at  work  ;  for  when  Miss  Bes- 
wick says  a  thing,  there  's  no  use  opposing  her,  —  that  yoii 
know.  Mother  Ducklow." 

"  Yes,  she  likes  to  have  her  own  way,"  said  Mrs.  Duck- 
low, with  a  peculiar  pucker. 

"  It  seems  she  called  at  the  door  last  night  to  tell  you 
Reuben  had  come." 


32  COUPON  BONDS. 

"  Called  at  the  door  !  Did  u't  she  tell  jou  she  came  in 
and  made  us  a  visit  1 " 

*'No,  indeed!     Did  she  ?" 

Mrs.  Ducklow  concluded,  that,  if  nothino-  had  been  said 
on  that  subject,  she  might  as  well  remain  silent ;  so  she 
merely  remarked,  — 

"  0  yes,  a  visit,  — for  her.  She  a'n't  no  great  hand  to 
make  long  stops,  ye  know." 

"Only  when  she's  needed,"  said  Sophronia;  "then  she 
never  thinks  of  going  as  long  as  she  sees  anything  to  do. 
Reuben  !  you  must  n't  talk,  Reuben  !  " 

"  I  was  saj^ng,"  remarked  Neighbor  Jepworth,  "  it  '11  be 
too  bad  now,  if  you  have  to  give  up  this  place  ;  but  he  —  " 

Sophronia,  unseen  by  her  husband,  made  anxious  signs  to 
the  speaker  to  avoid  so  distressing  a  topic  in  the  invalid's 
presence. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  worry  about  that,"  she  hastened 
to  say.  "  After  we  have  been  favored  by  Providence  so  far 
and  in  such  extraordinary  ways,  we  think  we  can  afford  to 
trust  still  further.  We  have  all  we  can  think  of  and  at- 
tend to  to-day ;  and  the  future  will  take  care  of  itself." 

"  That 's  right ;  that 's  the  way  to  talk  !  "  said  Mr.  Duck- 
low.     "Providence  '11  take  care  of  ye,  you  may  be  sure  !  " 

"I  should  think  you  might  get  Ditson  to  renew  the 
mortgage,"  observed  Neighbor  Ferring.  "  He  can't  be 
hard  on  you,  under  such  circumstances.  And  he  can't  be 
so  foolish  as  to  want  the  money.  There  's  no  security  like 
real  estate.  If  I  had  money  to  invest,  I  would  n't  put  it 
into  anything  else." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Mr.  Ducklow  ;  "  nothin'  like  real  estate  !  " 
—  with  an  expression  of  profound  conviction. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Gov'ment  bonds  1 "  asked  Neigh- 
bor Jepworth. 

"  I  don't  know."     Mr.  Ducklow  scratched  his  cheek  and 


COUPON   BONDS.  33 

wrinkled  his  brow  with  an  expression  of  thoughtfulness  and 
candor.  "  I  have  n't  given  much  attention  to  the  subject. 
It  may  be  a  patriotic  duty  to  lend  to  Gov'ment,  if  one  has 
the  funds  to  spare." 

"Yes,"  said  Jepworth,  warming.  "'When  we  consider 
that  every  dollar  we  lend  to  Government  goes  to  carry  on 
the  war,  and  put  down  this  cursed  Rebellion  —  " 

"  And  to  pay  off  the  soldiers,"  put  in  Reuben,  raising 
himself  on  his  elbow.  "  Nobody  knows  the  sufferings  of 
soldiers  and  soldiers'  families  on  account  of  the  Govern- 
ment's inability  to  pay  them  off.  If  that  subject  was  felt 
and  understood  as  some  I  know  feel  and  understand  it, 
I  'm  sure  every  right-minded  man  with  fifty  dollars  to  spare 
would  make  haste  to  lend  it  to  Uncle  Sam.  I  tell  ye,  I 
got  a  little  excited  on  this  subject,  coming  on  in  the  cars. 
1  heard  a  gentleman  complaining  of  the  Government  for 
not  paying  off  its  creditors  ;  he  did  n't  say  so  much  about 
the  soldiers,  but  he  thought  contractors  ought  to  have 
their  claims  settled  at  once.  At  the  same  time  he  said  he 
had  had  twenty  thousand  dollars  lying  idle  for  two  months, 
not  knowing  what  to  do  with  it,  but  had  finally  concluded 
to  invest  it  in  railroad  stock.  '  Have  ye  any  Government 
stock  ] '  said  his  friend.  '  Not  a  dollar's  worth,'  said  he  ; 
'  I  'm  afraid  of  it.'  Sick  as  I  was,  I  could  n't  lie  and  hear 
that.  '  And  do  you  know  the  reason,'  said  I,  '  why  Gov- 
ernment cannot  pay  ofi'  its  creditors  1  I  '11  tell  ye,'  said  I. 
'  It  is  because  it  has  n't  the  money.  And  it  has  n't  the 
money,  because  such  men  as  you,  who  have  your  thou- 
sands lying  idle,  refuse  to  lend  to  your  country,  because 
you  are  afraid.  That 's  the  extent  of  your  patriotism  :  you 
are  afraid  !  What  do  you  think  of  us  who  have  gone  into 
the  war,  and  been  willing  to  risk  evei^thing,  —  not  only 
our  business  and  our  property,  but  life  and  limb  ?  I  'vc 
ruined  myself  personally,'  siiid  I,  '  h;st  my  property  and 
2^  c 


34  COUPON    BONDS. 

my  health,  to  be  of  service  to  my  country.  I  don't  regret 
it,  —  though  I  should  never  recover,  I  shall  not  regret  it. 
I  'm  a  tolerably  patient,  philosophical  sort  of  fellow  ;  but  I 
have  n't  patience  nor  philosophy  enough  to  hear  such  men 
as  you  abuse  the  Government  for  not  doing  what  it 's  your 
duty  to  assist  it  in  doing.' " 

"  Good  for  you,  Reuben  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ducklow,  who 
really  felt  obliged  to  the  young  soldier  for  placing  the  pre- 
vious day's  investment  in  such  a  strong  patriotic  light. 
(  "  I  've  only  done  my  duty  to  Gov'ment,  let  iVIiss  Beswick 
say  what  she  will,"  thought  he.)  "You  wound  him  up,  1 
guess.  Fact,  you  state  the  case  so  well,  Reuben,  I  believe, 
if  I  had  any  funds  to  spare,  I  should  n't  hesitate  a  minute, 
but  go  right  off  and  invest  in  Gov'ment  bonds." 

"  That  might  be  well  enough,  if  you  did  it  from  a  sense 
of  duty,"  said  Neighbor  Ferring,  who  was  something  of  a 
croaker,  and  not  much  of  a  patriot.  "  But  as  an  invest- 
ment, 't  would  be  the  wust  ye  could  make." 

"Ye  think  so  %  "  said  Mr.  Ducklow,  with  quick  alarm. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Ferring.  "  Gov'ment  '11  repudiate. 
It  '11  have  to  repudiate.  This  enormous  debt  never  can  be 
paid.  Your  interest  in  gold  is  a  temptation,  jest  now  ;  but 
that  won't  be  paid  much  longer,  and  then  yer  bonds  won't 
be  wuth  any  more  'n  so  much  brown  paper." 

"I  —  I  don't  think  so,"  said  !Mr.  Ducklow,  who  never- 
theless turned  pale,  —  Ferring  gave  his  opinion  in  such  a 
positive,  oracular  way.  "  I  don't  believe  I  should  be 
frightened,  even  if  I  had  Gov'ment  securities  in  my  hands. 
I  wish  I  had  ;  I  really  wish  I  had  a  good  lot  o'  them 
bonds  !     Don't  you,  Jepworth  % " 

"  They  're  mighty  resky  things  to  have  in  the  house, 
that 's  one  objection  to  'em,"  replied  Jepworth,  thus  adding 
breath  to  Ducklow's  already  kindled  alarm. 

"  That 's  so  !  "  said  Ferring,  emphatically.      "  I  read  in 


COUPON   BONDS.  35 

the  papers  almost  every  day  about  somebody's  having  his 
cowpon  bonds  stole." 

"  I  should  be  more  afraid  of  fires,"  observed  Jep worth. 

"But  there's  this  to  be  considered  in  favor  of  fires," 
said  Reuben  :  "  if  the  bonds  burn  up,  they  won't  have  to  be 
paid.     So  what  is  your  loss  is  the  country's  gain." 

"  But  is  n't  there  an}'-  —  is  n't  there  any  remedy  1  " 
inquired  Ducklow,  scarcely  able  to  sit  in  his  chair, 

"  There 's  no  risk  at  all,  if  a  man  subscribes  for  registered 
bonds,"  said  Reuben.  "  They  're  like  railroad  ■stock.  But 
if  you  have  the  coupons,  you  must  look  out  for  them." 

"  Why  did  n't  I  buy  registered  bonds  1 "  said  Ducklow  to 
himself.  His  chair  was  becoming  like  a  keg  of  gunpowder 
wdth  a  lighted  fuse  inserted.  The  familiar  style  of 
expression  —  "  Your  bonds,"  ^^  your  loss,"  "yow  must  look 
out  "  —  used  by  Ferring  and  Reuben,  was  not  calculated  to 
relieve  his  embarrassment.  He  fancied  that  he  was  sus- 
pected of  owning  Government  securities,  and  that  these 
careless  phrases  were  based  upon  that  surmise.  He  could 
keep  his  seat  no  longer. 

"  Wal,  Reuben  !  I  must  be  drivin'  home,  I  s'pose.  Left 
everything  at  loose  ends.  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  see  ye, 
and  find  out  if  there  's  anything  I  can  do  for  ye." 

"  As  for  that,"  said  Reuben,  "  I  've  got  a  trunk  over  in 
town  which  could  n't  be  brought  last  night.  If  you  will 
have  that  sent  for,  I  '11  be  obliged  to  ye." 

"  Sartin  !  sartin  !  "  And  Mr.  Ducklow  drove  away, 
greatly  to  the  relief  of  Mrs.  Ducklow,  who,  listening  to  the 
alarming  conversation,  and  remembering  the  bonds  under 
the  carpet,  and  the  matches  in  the  pantry,  and  Taddy's 
propensity  to  mischief,  felt  herself  (as  she  afterwards  con- 
fessed) "jest  ready  to  fly." 


36  COUPON  BONDS. 


MR.  DUCKLOWS  ADVENTURES. 

Mr.  Ducklow  had  scarcely  turned  the  corner  of  the 
street,  when,  looking  anxiously  in  the  direction  of  his  home- 
stead, he  saw  a  column  of  smoke.  It  was  directly  over  the 
spot  where  he  knew  his  house  to  be  situated.  He  guessed 
at  a  glance  what  had  happened.  The  frightful  catastrophe 
he  foreboded  had  befallen.     Taddy  had  set  the  house  afire. 

"  Them  bonds  !  them  bonds  !  "  he  exclaimed,  distractedly. 
He  did  not  think  so  much  of  the  house  :  house  and  furni- 
ture were  insured ;  if  they  were  burned,  the  inconvenience 
would  be  great  indeed,  and  at  any  other  time  the  thought 
of  such  an  event  would  have  been  sufficient  cause  for  trep- 
idation,—  but  now  his  chief,  his  only  anxiety  was  the 
bonds.  They  were  not  insured.  They  would  be  a  dead 
loss.  And  what  added  sharpness  to  his  pangs,  they  would 
be  a  loss  which  he  must  keep  a  secret,  as  he  had  kept  their 
existence  a  secret,  —  a  loss  which  he  could  not  confess,  and 
of  which  he  could  not  complain.  Had  he  not  just  given 
his  neighbors  to  understand  that  he  held  no  such  property-  ] 
And  his  wife,  —  was  she  not  at  that  very  moment,  if  not 
serving  up  a  lie  on  the  subject,  at  least  paring  the  trutli 
very  thin  indeed  1 

"A  man  would  think,"  observed  Ferring,  "  that  Ducklow 
had  some  o'  them  bonds  on  his  hands,  and  got  scaret,  he 
took  such  a  sudden  start.  He  has,  —  has  n't  he,  Mrs. 
Ducklow  ] " 

"  Has  what]"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  pretending  ignorance. 

"  Some  o'  them  cowpon  bonds.  I  ruther  guess  he  's  got 
some." 

"  You    mean    Gov'ment    bonds  1      Ducklow   got    some  1 


COUPON   BOKDS.  37 

'T  a'n't  at  all  likely  he  'd  spec'late  in  them,  without  saying 
something  to  me  about  it  !  No,  he  could  n't  have  any 
without  my  knowing  it,  I  'm  sure  ! " 

'  How  demure,  how  innocent  she  looked,  plying  her  knit- 
ting-needles, and  stopping  to  take  up  a  stitch  !  How  little 
at  that  moment  she  knew  of  Ducklow's  trouble,  and  its 
terrible  cause  ! 

Ducklow's  first  impulse  was  to  drive  on,  and  endeavor 
at  all  hazards  to  snatch  the  bonds  from  the  flames.  His 
next  was,  to  return  and  alarm  his  neighbors,  and  obtain 
their  assistance.  But  a  minute's  delay  might  be  fatal ;  so 
he  drove  on,  screaming,  "  Fire  !  fire  ! "  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

But  the  old  mare  was  a  slow-footed  animal ;  and  Duck- 
low  had  no  whip.  He  reached  forward  and  struck  her 
with  the  reins. 

''  Git  up  !  git  up  !  —  Fire  !  fire  !  "  screamed  Ducklow. 
"  0,  them  bonds  !  them  bonds  !  Why  did  n't  I  give  the 
money  to  Eeuben  1     Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  " 

By  dint  of  screaming  and  slapping,  he  urged  her  from 
a  trot  into  a  gallop,  which  was  scarcely  an  improvement  as 
to  speed,  and  certainly  not  as  to  gTace.  It  was  like  the 
gallop  of  an  old  cow.  "  Why  don't  ye  go  'long  !  "  he  cried 
despairingly. 

Slap,  slap  !  He  knocked  his  own  hat  off  with  the  loose 
ends  of  the  reins.  It  fell  under  the  wheels.  He  cast  one 
look  behind,  to  satisfy  himself  that  it  had  been  very  thor- 
oughly run  over  and  crushed  in  the  dirt,  and  left  it  to 
its  fate. 

Slap,  slap  !  "  Fire,  fire  !  "  Canter,  canter,  canter  !  Neigh- 
bors looked  out  of  their  windows,  and,  recognizing  Duck- 
low's wagon  and  old  mare  in  such  an  astonishing  plight, 
and  Ducklow  himself,  without  his  hat,  rising  from  his  seat, 
and   reaching  forward  in  wild  attitudes,  brandishing  the 


38  COUPON   BONDS. 

reins,  at  the  same  time  rending  the  azure  with  yells, 
thought  he  must  be  insane. 

He  drove  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  looking  beyond,  in 
expectation  of  seeing  his  house  wrapped  in  flames,  discov- 
ered that  the  smoke  proceeded  from  a  brush-heap  which 
his  neighbor  Atkins  was  burning  in  a  field  near  by. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  that  ensued  was  almost  too  much 
for  the  excitable  Ducklow.  His  strength  went  out  of  him. 
For  a  little  while  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  of  him 
but  tremor  and  cold  sweat.  Difficult  as  it  had  been  to  get 
the  old  mare  in  motion,  it  was  now  even  more  difficult  to 
stop  her. 

"  Why  !  what  has  got  into  Ducklow's  old  mare  1  She 's 
running  away  with  him  !  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing  ! "  And  Atkins,  watching  the  ludicrous  spectacle 
from  his  field,  became  almost  as  weak  from  laughter  as 
Ducklow  was  from  the  effects  of  fear. 

At  length  Ducklow  succeeded  in  checking  the  old  mare's 
speed,  and  in  turning  her  about.  It  was  necessary  to  drive 
back  for  his  hat.  By  this  time  he  could  hear  a  chorus  of 
shouts,  "  Fire  !  fire  !  fire  !  "  over  the  hill.  He  had  aroused 
the  neighbors  as  he  passed,  and  now  they  were  flocking  to 
extinguish  the  flames. 

"  A  false  alarm  !  a  false  alarm  !  "  said  Ducklow,  looking 
marvellously  sheepish  as  he  met  them.  "  Nothing  but 
Atkins's  brush-heap  ! " 

"  Seems  to  me  you  ought  to  have  found  that  out  'fore 
you  raised  all  creation  with  your  yells  !  "  said  one  hyper- 
bolical fellow.  ''  You  looked  like  the  Flying  Dutchman  ! 
This  your  hat  1  I  thought  't  was  a  dead  cat  in  the  road. 
No  fire,  no  fire  !  "  —  turning  back  to  his  comrades,  —  "  only 
one  of  Ducklow's  jokes." 

Nevertheless,  two  or  three  boys  there  were  who  would 
not  be  convinced,  but  continued  to  leap  up,  swing  their 


COUPON  BONDS.  39 

caps,  and  scream  "  Fire ! "  against  all  remonstrance. 
Ducklow  did  not  wait  to  enter  into  explanations,  but,  turn- 
ing the  old  mare  about  again,  drove  home  amid  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  bystanders  and  the  screams  of  the  misguided 
youngsters.  As  he  approached  the  house,  he  met  Taddy 
rushing  wildly  up  the  street. 

"Thaddeus  !  Thaddeus  !  where  ye  goin',  Thaddeus*?  " 

"  Goin'  to  the  fire  !  "  cried  Taddy. 

"  There  a'n't  any  fire,  boy  !  " 

"Yes,  there  is  !  Didn't  ye  hear  'em?  They  've  been 
yellin'  like  fury." 

"  It 's  nothin'  but  Atkins's  brush." 

"  That  all  1 "  And  Taddy  appeared  very  much  disap- 
pointed. "  I  thought  there  was  goin'  to  be  some  fun.  I 
wonder  who  was  such  a  fool  as  to  yell  fire  jest  for  a  darned 
old  brush-heap  ! " 

Ducklow  did  not  inform  him. 

"  I  've  got  to  drive  over  to  town  and  git  Reuben's  trunk. 
You  stand  by  the  mare  while  I  step  in  and  brush  my  hat." 

Instead  of  applying  himself  at  once  to  the  restoration  of 
his  beaver,  he  hastened  to  the  sitting-room,  to  see  that  the 
bonds  were  safe. 

"  Heavens  and  'arth  ! "  said  Ducklow. 

The  chair,  which  had  been  carefully  planted  in  the  spot 
where  they  were  concealed,  had  been  removed.  Three  or 
four  tacks  had  been  taken  out,  and  the  carpet  pushed  from 
the  wall.  There  was  straw  scattered  about.  Evidently 
Taddy  had  been  interrupted,  in  the  midst  of  his  ransack- 
ing, by  the  alarm  of  fire.  Indeed,  he  was  even  now  creep- 
ing into  the  house  to  see  what  notice  Ducklow  would  take 
of  these  evidences  of  his  mischief 

In  gi-eat  trepidation  the  farmer  thrust  in  his  hand  here 
and  there,  and  groped,  until  he  found  the  envelope  precise- 
ly where  it  had  been  placed  the  night  before,  with  the  taj)e 


40  COUPON  BONDS. 

tied  around  it,  vrhich  his  wife  had  put  on  to  prevent  its 
contents  from  sHpping  out  and  losing  themselves.  Great 
was  the  joy  of  Ducklow.  Great  also  was  the  wrath  of  him 
when  he  turned  and  discovered  Taddy. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  to  stand  by  the  old  mare  1 " 

''She  won't  stir,"  said  Taddy,  shrinking  away  again. 

"  Come  here  !  "  And  Ducklow  grasped  him  by  the  col- 
lar.    "  What  have  you  been  doin'  1     Look  at  that !  " 

"  'T  wa  n't  me  !  "  —  beginning  to  whimper,  and  ram  his 
fists  into  liis  eyes. 

"  Don't  tell  me  't  wa'n't  you  !  "  Ducklow  shook  him  till 
his  teeth  chattered.  "  What  was  you  pullin'  up  the  carpet 
for?" 

"  Lost  a  marble  !  "  snivelled  Taddy. 

" Lost  a  marble  !  Ye  didn't  lose  it  under  the  carpet, 
did  ye?  Look  at  all  that  straw  pulled  out!"  —  shaking 
him  again. 

"  Did  n't  know  but  it  might  'a'  got  under  the  carpet, 
marbles  roll  so,"  explained  Taddy,  as  soon  as  he  could  get 
his  breath. 

"  Wal,  sir  !  "  Ducklow  administered  a  resounding  box 
on  his  ear.  "  Don't  you  do  such  a  thing  again,  if  you  lose 
a  million  marbles  !  " 

"  Ha'n't  got  a  million  !  "  Taddy  wept,  rubbing  his  cheek. 
"  Ha'n't  got  but  four !     Won't  ye  buy  me  some  to-day  1 " 

"  Go  to  that  mare,  and  don't  you  leave  her  again  till  I 
come,  or  I  '11  marble  ye  in  a  way  you  won't  like  ! " 

Understanding,  by  this  somewhat  equivocal  form  of  ex- 
l)rcssion,  that  flagellation  was  threatened,  Taddy  obeyed, 
still  feeling  his  smarting  and  burning  ear. 

Ducklow  was  in  trouble.  What  should  he  do  with  the 
bonds  1  The  floor  was  no  place  for  them,  after  what  had 
]»appcned  ,  and  he  remembered  too  well  the  experience  of 
yesterday  to  think  for  a  moment  of  carrying  them  about 


COUPON  BONDS.  41 

his  person.  With  unreasonable  impatience,  his  mind 
reverted  to  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Why  a'n't  she  to  home  1  These  women  are  forever 
a-gaddin' !     I  wish  Reuben's  trunk  was  in  Jericho  !  " 

Thinking  of  the  ti-unk  reminded  him  of  one  in  the  garret, 
filled  with  old  papers  of  all  sorts,  —  newspapers,  letters, 
bills  of  sale,  children's  writing-books,  —  accumulations  of 
the  past  quarter  of  a  century.  Neither  fire  nor  burglar 
nor  ransacking  youngster  had  ever  molested  those  ancient 
records  during  all  those  five-and-twenty  years.  A  bright 
thought  struck  him. 

*'  I  '11  slip  the  bonds  down  into  that  wuthless  heap  o' 
rubbish,  where  no  one  'u'd  ever  think  o'  lookin'  for  'em,  and 
resk  'em." 

Having  assured  himself  that.  Taddy  was  standing  by  the 
wagon,  he  paid  a  hasty  visit  to  the  trunk  in  the  garret,  and 
concealed  the  envelope,  still  bound  in  its  band  of  tape, 
among  the  papers.  He  then  drove  away,  giving  Taddy  a 
final  charge  to  beware  of  setting  anything  afire. 

He  had  driven  about  half  a  mile  when  he  met  a  pedler. 
There  was  nothing  unusual  or  alarming  in  such  a  circum- 
stance, surely  ;  but  as  Ducklow  kept  on,  it  troubled  him. 

"  He  '11  stop  to  the  house  now,  most  likely,  and  want  to 
trade.  Findin'  nobody  but  Taddy,  there's  no  knowin' 
what  he  '11  be  tempted  to  do.  But  I  a'n't  a-goin'  to  worry. 
I  '11  defy  anybody  to  find  them  bonds.  Besides,  she  may 
be  home  by  this  time.  I  guess  she'll  hear  of  the  fire- 
alarm,  and  hurry  home  :  it  '11  be  jest  like  her.  She  '11  be 
there,  —  and  —  trade  with  the  pedler  1 "  thought  Ducklow, 
uneasily.  Then  a  frightful  fancy  possessed  him.  *'She 
has  threatened  two  or  three  times  to  sell  that  trunkful  of 
old  papers.  He  '11  offer  a  big  price  for  'em,  and  ten  to  one 
she  '11  let  him  have  'em.  Why  did  n't  I  consider  on 't  1 
What  a  stupid  blunderbuss  I  be  !  " 


42  COUPON  BONDS. 

As  Diicklow  thought  of  it  he  felt  almost  certain  that 
Mrs.  Ducklow  had  returned  home,  and  that  she  was  bar- 
gaining with  the  pedler  at  that  moment.  He  fancied  her 
smilingly  receiving  bright  tin-ware  for  the  old  papers  ;  and 
he  could  see  the  tape-tied  envelope  going  into  the  bag  with 
the  rest.  The  result  was  that  he  turned  about  and  whipped 
the  old  mare  home  again  in  terrific  haste,  to  catch  the 
departing  pedler. 

Arriving,  he  found  the  house  as  he  had  left  it,  and  Taddy 
occupied  in  making  a  kite-frame. 

"  Did  that  pedler  stop  here  '?  " 

"  1  ha'n't  seen  no  pedler." 

"  And  ha'n't  yer  Ma  Ducklow  been  home,  neither  ] " 

''  No." 

And  with  a  guilty  look,  Taddy  put  the  kite-frame  behind 
him. 

Ducklow  considered.  The  pedler  had  turned  up  a  cross- 
street  :  he  would  probably  turn  down  again  and  stop  at  the 
house  after  all  :  Mrs.  Ducklow  might  by  that  time  be  at 
home :  then  the  sale  of  old  papers  would  very  likely 
take  place.  Ducklow  thought  of  leaving  word  that  he  did 
not  wish  any  old  papers  in  the  house  to  be  sold,  but  feared 
the  request  might  excite  Taddy's  suspicions, 

"  I  don't  see  no  way  but  for  me  to  take  the  bonds  with 
me,"  thought  he,  with  an  inward  groan. 

He  accordingly  went  to  the  garret,  took  the  envelope 
out  of  the  trunk,  and  placed  it  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
overcoat,  to  which  he  pinned  it,  to  prevent  it  by  any 
chance  from  getting  out.  He  used  six  large,  strong  pins 
for  the  purpose,  and  was  afterwards  sorry  he  did  not  use 
seven. 

"  There 's  suthin'  losin'  out  of  yer  pocket ! "  bawled 
Taddy,  as  he  was  once  more  mounting  the  wagon. 

Quick   as  lightning,  Ducklow  clapped  his  hand  to  his 


COUPON  BONDS.  43 

breast.  In  doing  so,  he  loosed  his  hold  of  the  wagon-box 
and  fell,  raking  his  shin  badly  on  the  wheel. 

"  Yer  side-pocket !  it 's  one  o'  yer  mittens  ! "  said  Taddy. 

"  You  rascal !  how  you  scaret  me  !  " 

Seating  himself  in  the  wagon,  Ducklow  gently  pulled  up 
his  trousers-leg  to  look  at  the  bruised  part. 

"  Got  anything  in  yer  boot-leg  to-day,  Pa  Ducklow  1 " 
asked  Taddy,  innocently. 

"  Yes,  a  barked  shin  !  —  all  on  your  account,  too  !  Go 
I  and  put  that  straw  back,  and  fix  the  carpet ;  and  don't  ye 
let  me  hear  ye  speak  of  my  boot-leg  again,  or  I  '11  hoot-leg 
ye  ! " 

So  saying,  Ducklow  departed. 

Instead  of  repairing  the  mischief  he  had  done  in  the 
sitting-room,  Taddy  devoted  his  time  and  talents  to  the 
more  interesting  occupation  of  constructing  his  kite-frame. 
He  worked  at  that,  until  Mr.  Grantley,  the  minister,  driv- 
ing by,  stopped  to  inquire  how  the  folks  were. 

"  A'n't  to  home  may  I  ride  1 "  cried  Taddy,  all  in  a  breath. 

!Mr.  Grantley  was  an  indulgent  old  gentleman,  fond  of 
children ;  so  he  said,  "  Jump  in  "  ;  and  in  a  minute  Taddy 
had  scrambled  to  a  seat  by  his  side. 


VI. 

MRS.    DUCKLOW'S    ADVENTURES. 

And  now  occiUTed  a  circumstance  which  Ducklow  had 
foreseen.  The  alarm  of  fire  had  reached  Reuben's  ;  and 
although  the  report  of  its  falseness  followed  immediately, 
Mrs.  Ducklow's  inflammable  fimcy  was  so  kindled  by  it 
that  she  could  find  no  comfort  in  prolonging  her  visit. 


44  COUPON  BONDS. 

"  Mr.  Ducklow  '11  he  going  for  the  trunk,  and  I  rn^ist  go 
home  and  see  to  things,  Taddy  's  siich  a  fellow  for  mis- 
chief !     I  can  foot  it ;  I  sha'  n't  mind  it." 

And  off  she  started,  walking  herself  out  of  breath  in  her 
anxiety. 

She  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  just  in  time  to  see  a 
chaise  drive  away  from  her  own  door. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  I  wonder  if  Taddy  's  there  to  guard 
the  house  !     If  anything  should  happen  to  them  bonds  !  " 

Out  of  breath  as  she  was,  she  quickened  her  pace,  and 
trudged  on,  flushed,  perspiring,  panting,  until  she  reached 
the  house. 

"  Thaddeus  ! "  she  called. 

No  Taddy  answered.  She  went  in.  The  house  was  de- 
serted. And  lo  !  the  carpet  torn  up  and  the  bonds  ab- 
stracted. 

Mr.  Ducklow  never  would  have  made  such  work,  remov- 
ing the  bonds.  Then  somebody  else  must  have  taken 
them,  she  reasoned. 

"  The  man  in  the  chaise  !  "  she  exclaimed,  or  rather 
made  an  effort  to  exclaim,  succeedino-  onlv  in  brin2;ino-  forth 
a  hoarse,  gasping  sound.  Fear  dried  up  articulation.  Vox 
faucibus  hcesit. 

And  Taddy  %  He  had  disappeared ;  been  murdered,  per- 
haps, —  or  gagged  and  carried  away  by  the  man  in  the 
chaise. 

Mrs.  Ducklow  flew  hither  and  thither,  (to  use  a  favorite 
phrase  of  her  own),  "like  a  hen  with  her  head  cut  off"  ; 
then  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  up  the  street,  screaming 
after  the  chaise,  — 

"  Murder  !  murder  !     Stop  thief !  stop  thief !  " 

She  waved  her  hands  aloft  in  the  air  frantically.  If  she 
had  trudged  before,  now  she  trotted,  now  she  cantered  : 
but  if  the  cantering  of  the  old  mare  was  fitly  likened  to 


COUPON  BONDS.  45 

that  of  a  cow,  to  what  thing,  to  what  manner  of  motion 
under  the  sun,  shall  we  liken  the  cantering  of  Mrs.  Duck- 
low  ]  It  was  original ;  it  was  unique  ;  it  was  prodigious. 
Now,  with  her  frantically  waving  hands,  and  all  her  \nidu- 
lating  and  flapping  skirts,  she  seemed  a  species  of  huge, 
unwieldy  bird  attempting  to  fly.  Then  she  sank  down  into 
a  heavy,  dragging  walk,  —  breath  and  strength  all  gone,  — 
no  voice  left  even  to  scream  nuu'der.  Then  the  awful  re- 
alization of  the  loss  of  the  bonds  once  more  rushing  over 
her,  she  started  up  again.  "  Half  running,  half  flying, 
what  progress  she  made  ! "  Then  Atkins's  dog  saw  her, 
and,  naturally  mistaking  her  for  a  prodigy,  came  out  at 
her,  bristling  up  and  bounding  and  barking  terrifically. 

"  Come    here  ! "       cried    Atkins,    following     the     dog. 
"  What 's  the  matter  1     What 's  to  pay,  Mrs.  Ducklow  1 " 

Attempting  to  speak,  the  good  woman  could  only  pant 
and  wheeze. 

"  Robbed  ! "   she  at  last  managed  to  w^hisper,  amid  the 
yelpings  of  the  cur  that  refused  to  be  silenced. 
''Robbed^     Howl     AVhoT' 
"  The  chaise  !     Ketch  it ! " 

Her  gestures  expressed  more  than  her  words ;  and  At- 
kins's horse  and  wagon,  with  which  he  had  been  drawing 
out  brush,  being  in  the  yard  near  by,  he  ran  to  them, 
leaped  to  the  seat,  drove  into  the  road,  took  Mrs.  Ducklow 
aboard,  and  set  out  in  vigorous  pursuit  of  the  slow  two- 
wheeled  vehicle. 

"  Stop,  you,  sir  !  Stop,  you,  sir  ! "  shrieked  ,Mrs.  Duck- 
low, having  recovered  her  breath  by  the  time  they  came  up 
with  the  chaise. 

It  stopped,  and  Mr.  Grantley  the  minister  put  out  his 
good-natured,  surprised  face. 

"  You  've  robbed  my  house  !     You  've  took  —  " 
Mrs.  Ducklow  was  going  on  in  wild,  accusatoiy  accents, 
when  she  recognized  the  benign  countenance. 


46  COUPON   BONDS. 

"What  do  you  say?  I  have  robbed  you  T'  he  ex- 
claimed, very  much  astonished. 

"  No,  no  !  not  you  !  You  would  n't  do  such  a  thing  !  " 
she  stammered  forth,  while  Atkins,  who  had  laughed  him- 
self weak  at  Mr.  Ducklow's  plight  earlier  in  the  morning, 
now  went  off  into  a  side-ache  at  Mrs.  Ducklow's  ludicrous 
mistake.  "But  did  you  —  did  you  stop  at  my  house  1 
Have  you  seen  our  Thaddeus  1 " 

"  Here  I  be.  Ma  Ducklow ! "  piped  a  small  voice  ;  and 
Taddy,  who  had  till  then  remained  hidden,  fearing  punish- 
ment, peeped  out  of  the  chaise  from  behind  the  broad  back 
of  the  minister.  { 

"  Taddy  !  Taddy  !  how  came  the  carpet  —  " 

"  I  pulled  it  up,  huntin'  for  a  marble,"  said  Taddy,  as 
she  paused,  overmastered  by  her  emotions. 

"  And  the  —  the  thing  tied  up  in  a  yaller  wrapper  1 " 

"  Pa  Ducklow  took  it." 

"  Ye  sure  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  seen  him  !  " 

"  0  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  "  I  never  was  so  beat ! 
Mr.  Grantley,  I  hope  —  excuse  me  —  I  did  n't  know  what 
I  was  about  !  Taddy,  you  nptty  boy,  what  did  you  leave 
the  house  for  ?     Be  ye  quite  sure  yer  Pa  Ducklow  —  " 

Taddy  repeated  that  he  was  quite  sure,  as  he  climbed 
from  the  chaise  into  Atkins's  wagon.  The  minister  smil- 
ingly remarked  that  he  hoped  she  would  find  no  robbery 
had  been  committed,  and  went  his  way.  Atkins,  driving- 
back,  and  setting  her  and  Taddy  down  at  the  Ducklow 
gate,  answered  her  embarrassed  "Much  obleeged  to  ye," 
with  a  sincere  "  Not  at  all,"  considering  the  fun  he  had 
had  a  sufficient  compensation  for  his  trouble.  And  thus 
ended  the  morning's  adventures,  w^ith  the  exception  of  an 
unimportant  episode,  in  which  Taddy,  Mrs.  Ducklow,  and 
Mrs.  Ducklow's  rattan  were  the  principal  actors. 


1% 


/' 


COUPON  BONDS.  «  47 

^  VII. 

THE   JOURNEY. 

At  noon  Mr.  Ducklow  returned. 

"  Did  ye  take  the  bonds  1 "  was  his  wife's  first  question. 

"  Of  course  I  did  !  Ye  don  t  suppose  I  'd  go  away  and 
leave  'em  in  the  house,  not  know  in'  when  you  'd  be  comin' 
home  ?  " 

"  Wal,  I  did  n't  know.  And  I  did  n't  know  whuther  to 
beheve  Taddy  or  not.     0,  I  've  had  such  a  fright !  " 

And  she  related  the  story  of  her  pursuit  of  the  minis- 
ter. 

"  How  could  ye  make  such  a  fool  of  yerself  1  It  '11  git 
all  over  town,  and  I  shall  be  mortified  to  death.  Jest  like 
a  woman  to  git  frightened  !  " 

*'  If  you  had  n't  got  frightened,  and  made  a  fool  of  your- 
self, yellirf  fire,  't  would  n't  have  happened  ! "  retorted 
Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  Wal !  wal !  say  no  more  about  it !  The  bonds  are 
safe." 

"  I  was  in  hopes  you  'd  change  'em  for  them  registered 
bonds  Reuben  spoke. of." 

"  I  did  try  to,  but  they  told  me  to  the  bank  it  could  n't 
be  did.  Then  I  asked  'em  if  they  would  keep  'em  for 
me,  and  they  said  they  would  n't  object  to  lockin'  on  'em 
up  in  their  safe  ;  but  they  would  n't  give  me  no  receipt, 
nor  hold  themselves  responsible  for  'em.  I  did  n't  know 
what  else  to  do,  so  I  handed  'em  the  bonds  to  keep." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  did  now !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Ducklow,  disapprovingly. 

"  Why  not  1  What  else  could  I  do  1  I  did  n't  want  to 
lug  'em  around  with  me  forever.     And  as  for  keepin'  'em 


48  •  COUPON  BONDS. 

hid  in  the  house,  we  've  tried  that  ! "  and  Ducklow^n- 
folded  his  weekly  newspaper. 

Mrs.  Ducklow  was  placing  the  dinner  on  the  table,  with 
a  look  which  seemed  to  say,  "  /  would  n't  have  left  the 
bonds  in  the  bank  ;  my  judgment  would  have  been  better 
than  all  that.  If  they  are  lost,  /  sha'  n't  be  to  blame  !  " 
when  suddenly  Ducklow  started  and  uttered  a  cry  of  con- 
sternation over  his  newspaper,  ^ 

"  Why,  what  have  ye  found  ?  " 

"  Bank  robbery  !  " 

"  Not  your  bank  %     Not  the  bank  where  your  bonds  —  " 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  in  the  very  next  town  !  The  safe 
blown  open  wnth  gunpowder  !  Five  thousand  dollars  in 
Gov'ment  bonds  stole  !  " 

"  How  strange  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  Now  what  did 
I  tell  ye  1 " 

"  I  believe  you  're  right,"  cried  Ducklow,  starting  to  his 
feet.  "  They  '11  be  safer  in  my  own  house,  or  even  in  my 
own  pocket  ! " 

"  If  you  was  going  to  put  'em  in  any  safe,  why  not  put 
'em  in  Josiah's  ?     He  's  got  a  safe,  ye  know." 

"  So  he  has !  We  might  drive  over  there  and  make  a 
visit  Monday,  and  ask  him  to  lock  up  —  yes,  we  might 
tell  him  and  Laury  all  about  it,  and  leave  'em  in  their 
charge." 

"  So  we  might !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

Laura  was  their  daughter  and  Josiah  her  husband,  in 
whose  honor  and  sagacity  they  placed  unlimited  confidence. 
The  plan  was  resolved  upon  at  once. 

"  To-morrow  's  Sunday,"  said  Ducklow,  pacing  the  floor. 
"If  we  leave  the  bonds  in  the  bank  over  night,  they  must 
stay  there  till  Monday." 

"  And  Sunday  is  jest  the  day  for  burglars  to  operate  !  " 
added  Mrs.  Ducklow. 


COUPON  BONDS.  49 

I  Ve  a  good  notion  —  let  me  see  1 "  said  Diicklow, 
looking  at  the  clock.  "  Twenty  minutes  after  twelve  ! 
Bank  closes  at  two  !  An  hour  and  a  half,  —  I  believe  I 
could  git  there  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  I  will.  I  '11  take  a 
bite  and  drive  right  back." 

Which  he  accordingly  did,  and  brought  the  tape-tied 
envelope  home  with  him  again.  That  night  he  slept  with 
it  under  his  pillow.  The  next  day  was  Sunday  ;  and  al- 
though Mr.  Ducklow  did  not  like  to  have  the  bonds  on  his 
mind  daring  sermon-time,  and  Mrs.  Ducklow  "  dreaded 
dreadfully,"  as  she  said,  "to  look  the  minister  in  the  face," 
they  concluded  that  it  was  best,  on  the  whole,  to  go  to 
meeting,  and  carry  the  bonds.  With  the  envelope  once 
more  in  his  breast-pocket  (stitched  in  this  time  by  Mrs. 
Ducklow's  own  hand),  the  farmer  sat  under  the  droppings 
of  the  sanctuary,  and  stared  up  at  the  good  minister,  but 
without  hearing  a  word  of  the  discourse,  his  mind  was  so 
engrossed  by  worldly  cares,  until  the  preacher  exclaimed 
vehemently,  looking  straight  at  Ducklow's  pew,  — 

"  What  said  Paul  1  '  I  would  to  God  that  not  only  thou, 
but  also  all  that  hear  me  this  day,  were  both  almost  and 
altogether  such  as  I  am,  excejyt  these  bonds.''  '  Except  these 
bonds '  I "  he  repeated,  striking  the  Bible.  "  Can  you,  my 
hearers,  —  can  you  say  with  Paul,  '  Would  that  all  were 
as  I  am,  except  these  bonds '  ?  " 

A  point  which  seemed  for  a  moment  so  personal  to  him- 
self, that  Ducklow  was  filled  with  confusion,  and  would 
certainly  have  stammered  out  some  foolish  answer,  had  not 
the  preacher  passed  on  to  other  themes.  As  it  was,  Duck- 
low contented  himself  with  glancing  around  to  see  if  the 
congregation  was  looking  at  him,  and  carelessly  passing  his 
hand  across  his  breast-pocket  to  make  sure  the  bonds  were 
still  there. 

Early  the  next  morning,  the  old  mare  was  harnessed, 

3  D 


50  COUPON  BONDS. 

and  Taddy's  adopted  parents  set  out  to  visit  their  daugh- 
ter, —  Mrs.  Ducklow  having  postponed  her  washing  for  the 
purpose.  It  was  afternoon  when  they  arrived  at  their 
journey's  end.  Laura  received  them  joyfully,  but  Josiah 
was  not  expected  home  until  evening.  Mr.  Ducklow  put 
the  old  mare  in  the  barn,  and  fed  her,  and  then  went  in  to 
dinner,  feeling  very  comfortable  indeed. 

"  Josiah  's  got  a  nice  place  here.  That 's  about  as  slick 
a  little  barn  as  ever  I  see.  Always  does  me  good  to  come 
over  here  and  see  you  gittin'  along  so  nicely,  Laury." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  come  oftener,  then,"  said  Laura. 

"  Wal,  it 's  hard  leavin'  home,  ye  know.  Have  to  git 
one  of  the  Atkins  boys  to  come  and  sleep  with  Taddy  the 
night  we  're  away." 

"  We  should  n't  have  come  to-day,  if  't  had  n't  been  for 
me,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  Says  I  to  your  father,  says 
I,  '  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  go  over  and  see  Laury  ;  it  seems 
an  age  since  I  've  seen  her,'  says  L  '  Wal,'  says  he,  '  s'pos'n' 
we  go  ! '  says  he.  That  was  only  last  Saturday ;  and  this 
morning  we  started." 

"  And  it 's  no  fool  of  a  job  to  make  the  journey  with  the 
old  mare  ! "  said  Ducklow. 

"Why  don't  you  drive  a  better  horse  I"  said  Laura, 
whose  pride  was  always  touched  when  her  parents  came  to 
visit  her  with  the  old  mare  and  the  one-horse  wagon. 

"  0,  she  answers  my  purpose.  Hoss-flesh  is  high,  Laury. 
Have  to  economize,  these  times." 

"  I  'm  sure  there 's  no  need  of  your  economizing  ! " 
exclaimed  Laura,  leading  the  way  to  the  dining-room. 
"  Why  don't  you  use  your  money,  and  have  the  good  of  it  ]" 

"  So  I  tell  him,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  faintly.  —  ''  Why, 
Laura !  I  did  n't  want  you  to  be  to  so  much  trouble  to  git 
dinner  jest  for  us  !  A  bite  would  have  answered.  Do  see, 
father ! " 


COUPON  BONDS  51 

VIII. 

WHAT   MR.    DUCKLOW    CARRIED    IN    THE    ENVELOPE. 

At  evening  Josiah  came  home ;  and  it  was  not  until  then 
that  Diicklow  mentioned  the  subject  which  was  foremost 
in  his  thoughts. 

"What  do  ye  think  o'  Gov'ment  bonds,  Josiah  1"  he 
incidentally  inquired,  after  supper. 

"  First-rate  !  "  said  Josiah. 

"About  as  safe  as  anything,  a'n't  theyl"  said  Ducklow, 
encouraged. 

"Safel"  cried  Josiah.  "Just  look  at  the  resources 
of  this  country!  Nobody  has  begun  to  appreciate  the 
power  and  undeveloped  wealth  of  these  United  States. 
It's  a  big  rebellion,  I  know;  but  we're  going  to  put  it 
down.  It  '11  leave  us  a  big  debt,  very  sure  ;  but  w^e  handle 
it  now  as  easy  as  that  child  lifts  that  stool.  It  makes  him 
grunt  and  stagger  a  little,  not  because  he  isn't  strong 
enough  for  it,  but  because  he  don't  understand  his  own 
streng-th,  or  how  to  use  it  :  he  '11  have  twice  the  strength, 
and  know  just  how  to  apply  it,  in  a  little  while.  Just  so 
with  this  country.  It  makes  me  laugh  to  hear  folks  talk 
about  repudiation  and  bankruptcy." 

"But  s'pos'n'  we  do  put  down  the  rebellion,  and  the 
States  come  back  :  then  what 's  to  hender  the  South,  and 
Secesh  sympathizers  in  the  North,  from  j'inin'  hands  and 
votin'  that  the  debt  sha'  n't  be  paid  1 " 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  that  !  Do  ye  suppose  we  're 
going  to  be  such  fools  as  to  give  the  rebels,  after  we  've 
whipped  'em,  the  same  political  power  they  had  before  the 
war  1  Not  by  a  long  chalk  !  Sooner  than  that  we  '11  put 
the  ballot  into  the  hands  of  the  freedmen.     They  're  our 


62  COUPON  BONDS. 

friends.  They  've  fought  on  the  right  side,  and  they  '11 
vote  on  the  right  side.  I  tell  ye,  spite  of  all  the  prejudice 
there  is  against  black  skins,  we  a'n't  such  a  nation  of  nin- 
nies as  to  give  up  all  we  're  fighting  for,  and  leave  our 
best  friends  and  allies,  not  to  speak  of  our  own  interests,  in 
the  hands  of  our  enemies." 

"You  consider  Gov'ments  a  good  investment,  then,  do 
ye  1 "  said  Ducklow,  growing  radiant. 

"  I  do,  decidedly,  —  the  very  best.  Besides,  you  help 
the  Government ;  and  that 's  no  small  consideration." 

"  So  I  thought.  But  how  is  it  about  the  cowpon  bonds? 
A'n't  they  ruther  ticklish  property  to  have  in  the  house  i  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  Think  how  many  years  you  '11 
keep  old  bills  and  documents  and  never  dream  of  such  a 
thing  as  losing  them  !  There  's  not  a  bit  more  danger 
with  the  bonds.  I  shouldn't  want  to  carry  'em  around 
with  me,  to  any  great  amount,  —  though  I  did  once  carry 
three  thousand-dollar  bonds  in  my  pocket  for  a  week.  I 
did  n't  mind  it." 

"  Curi's  !  "  said  Ducklow  :  "  I  've  got  three  thousan'- 
doUar  bonds  in  my  pocket  this  minute  !  " 

"  Well,  it 's  so  much  good  property,"  said  Josiah,  appear- 
ing not  at  all  surprised  at  the  circumstance. 

"  Seems  to  me,  though,  if  I  had  a  safe,  as  you  have,  I 
should  lock  "em  up  in  it." 

"  I  was  travelling  that  week.  I  locked  'em  up  pretty 
soon  after  I  got  home,  though." 

"Suppose,"  said  Ducklow,  as  if  the  thought  had  but 
just  occurred  to  him,  —  "  suppose  you  put  my  bonds  into 
your  safe  :  I  shall  feel  easier." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Josiah.  "  I  ']1  keep  'em  for  you,  if 
you  like." 

"It  will  be  an  accommodation.  They  '11  be  safe,  will 
they]" 


COUPON  BONDS.  53 

"  Safe  as  mine  are ;  safe  as  anybody's  :  I  '11  insure  'em 
for  twenty-five  cents." 

Ducklow  was  happy.  Mrs.  Ducklow  was  happy.  She 
took  h-er  husband's  coat,  and  with  a  pair  of  scissors  cut  the 
threads  that  stitched  the  envelope  to  the  pocket. 

"  Have  you  torn  off  the  May  coupons  1 "  asked  Josiah. 

"No." 

"  Well,  you  'd  better.  They  '11  be  payable  now  soon  ; 
and  if  you  take  them,  you  won't  have  to  touch  the  bonds 
again  till  the  interest  on  the  November  coupons  is  due." 

"  A  good  idee  !  "  said  Ducklow. 

He  took  the  envelope,  untied  the  tape,  and  removed  the 
contents.  Suddenly  the  glow  of  comfort,  the  gleam  of 
satisfaction,  faded  from  his  countenance. 

"  Hello  !     What  ye  got  there  1 "  cried  Josiah. 

"  Why,  father  !  massy  sakes  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

As  for  Ducklow  himself,  he  could  not  utter  a  word ;  but, 
dumb  with  consternation,  he  looked  again  in  the  envelope, 
and  opened  and  turned  inside  out,  and  shook,  with 
trembling  hands,  its  astonishing  contents.  The  bonds 
were  not  there  :  they  had  been  stolen,  and  three  copies  of 
the  ''  Sunday  Visitor  "  had  been  inserted  in  their  place. 


IX. 

FOOD    FOR   REFLECTION. 

Very  early  on  the  following  morning  a  dismal-faced, 
middle-aged  couple  might  have  been  seen  riding  away  from 
Josiah's  house.  It  was  the  Ducklows  returning  home, 
after  their  fruitless,  their  worse  than  fruitless,  journey. 
No   entreaties  could  prevail  upon  them  to  prolong  their 


54  COUPON  BONDS. 

visit.  It  was  with  difficulty  even  that  they  had  been  pre- 
vented from,  setting  off  immediately  on  the  discovery  of 
their  loss,  and  travelling  all  night,  in  their  impatience  to 
get  npon  the  track  of  the  missing  bonds. 

"  There  '11  be  not  the  least  use  in  going  to-night,"  Josiah 
had  said.  ''  If  they  were  stolen  at  the  bank,  you  can't  do 
anything  about  it  till  to-morrow.  And  even  ■  if  they  were 
taken  from  your  own  house,  I  don't  see  what 's  to  be  gained 
now  by  hurrying  back.  You  may  just  as  well  take  it  easy, 
—  go  to  bed  and  sleep  on  't,  and  get  a  fresh  start  in  the 
morning." 

So,  much  against  their  inclination,  the  unfortunate  own- 
ers of  the  abstracted  bonds  retired  to  the  luxurious  cham- 
ber Laura  gave  them,  and  lay  awake  all  night,  groaning 
and  sighing,  wondering  and  surmising,  and  (I  regret  to 
add)  blaming  each  other.  So  true  it  is,  that  "  modern 
conveniences,"  hot  and  cold  water  all  over  the  house,  a 
pier-glass,  and  the  most  magnificently  canopied  couch, 
avail  nothing  to  give  tranquillity  to  the  harassed  mind. 
Hitherto  the  Ducklows  had  felt  great  satisfaction  in  the 
style  their  daughter,  by  her  marriage,  was  enabled  to  sup- 
port. To  brag  of  her  nice  house  and  furniture  and  two 
servants  was  almost  as  good  as  possessing  them.  Remem- 
bering her  rich  dining-room  and  silver  service  and  porcelain, 
they  were  proud.  Such  things  were  enough  for  the  honor 
of  the  family;  and,  asking  nothing  for  themselves,  they 
slept  well  in  their  humblest  of  bedchambers,  and  sipped 
their  tea  contentedly  out  of  clumsy  earthen.  But  that 
night  the  boasted  style  in  which  their  "  darter  "  lived  was 
less  appreciated  than  formerly ;  fashion  and  splendor  were 
no  longer  a  consolation. 

"  If  we  had  only  given  the  three  thousan'  dollars  to 
Reuben  ! "  said  Ducklow,  driving  homewards  with  a  coun- 
tenance as  long  as  his  whip-lash.      "  'T  would  have  jest  set 


■  COUPON  BONDS.  55 

him  up,  and  been  some  compensation  for  his  sufFerin's  and 
losses  goin'  to  the  war." 

"  Wal,  I  had  no  objections,"  repHed  Mrs.  Ducklow.  "  I 
always  thought  he  ought  to  have  the  money  eventooally. 
And,  as  Miss  Beswick  said,  no  doubt  it  would  'a'  been  ten 
times  the  comfort  to  him  now  it  would  be  a  number  o' 
years  from  now.     But  you  did  n't  seem  wilHng." 

"  I  don't  know  !  't  was  you  that  was  n't  willin' !  " 

And  they  expatiated  on  Reuben's  merits,  and  their 
benevolent  intentions  towards  him,  and,  in  imagination, 
endowed  him  with  the  price  of  the  bonds  over  and  over 
again  :  so  easy  is  it  to  be  generous  with  lost  money  ! 

"But  it's  no  use  talkin'  !"  said  Ducklow.  "I  ha'n't 
the  least  idee  we  shall  ever  see  the  color  o'  them  bonds 
again.  If  they  was  stole  to  the  bank,  I  can't  prove  any- 
thing." 

"  It  does  seem  strange  to  me,"  Mrs.  Ducklow  replied, 
"that  you  should  have  no  more  gumption  than  to  trust 
bonds  with  strangers,  when  they  told  you  in  so  many  the 
words  they  would  n't  be  responsible." 

"  If  you  have  flung  that  in  my  teeth  once,  you  have  fifty 
times  !  "  And  Ducklow  lashed  the  old  mare,  as  if  she,  and 
not  Mrs.  Ducklow,  had  exasperated  him. 

"  Wal,"  said  the  lady,  "I  don't  see  how  we're  going  to 
work  to  find  'em,  now  they  're  lost,  without  making  inqui- 
ries;  and  we  can't  make  inquiries  without  letting  it  be 
known  we  had  bought." 

"  I  been  thinkin'  about  that,"  said  her  husband.  "  0 
dear !  "  with  a  groan ;  "  I  wish  the  pesky  cowpon  bonds 
had  never  been  invented  !  " 

They  drove  first  to  the  bank,  where  they  were  of  course 
told  that  the  envelope  had  not  been  untied  there.  "  Besides, 
it  was  sealed,  was  n't  it  1 "  said  the  cashier.  "  Indeed  !  " 
He   expressed  great  surprise,  when  informed  that  it  was 


56  COUPON  BONDS. 

not.  "  It  should  have  been  :  I  supposed  any  child  would 
know  enough  to  look  out  for  that  !  " 

And  this  was  all  the  consolation  Ducklow  could  obtain. 

"  Just  as  I  expected,"  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  as  they  resumed 
their  journey.  "  I  just  as  much  believe  that  man  stole 
your  bonds  as  that  you  trusted  'em  in  his  hands  in  an  un- 
sealed wrapper  !     Beats  all  how  you  could  be  so  careless  ! " 

"  Wal,  wal  !     I  s'pose  I  never  sl:iall  hear  the  last  on 't !  " 

And  again  the  poor  old  mare  had  to  suffer  for  Mrs. 
Ducklow' s  offences. 

They  had  but  one  hope  now,  —  that  perhaps  Taddy  had 
tampered  with  the  envelope,  and  that  the  bonds  might  be 
found  somewhere  about  the  house.  But  this  hope  was 
quickly  extinguished  on  their  arrival.  Taddy,  being  ac- 
cused, protested  his  innocence  with  a  vehemence  which  con- 
vinced even  Mr.  Ducklow  that  the  cashier  was  probably  the 
guilty  party. 

"Unless,"  said  he,  brandishing  the  rattan,  ''somebody 
got  into  the  house  that  morning  when  the  little  scamp  run 
off  to  ride  with  the  minister  !  " 

"  0,  don't  lick  me  for  that  !  I  've  been  licked  for  that 
once  !  ha'n't  I,  Ma  Ducklow  1 "  shrieked  Taddy. 

"  And  besides,  you  'd  took  'em  with  you,  remember," 
said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

The  house  was  searched  in  vain,  No  clew  to  the 
purloined  securities  could  be  obtained,  —  the  copies  of  the 
"  Sunday  Visitor,"  which  had  been  substituted  for  them, 
affording  not  the  least;  for  that  valuable  little  paper  was 
found  in  almost  every  household,  except  Ducklow's. 

"  I  don't  see  any  way  left  but  to  advertise,  as  Josiah 
said,"  remarked  the  farmer,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  despondency. 

"  And  that  '11  bring  it  all  out !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ducklow. 
"  If  you  only  had  n't  been  so  imprudent !  " 

"  Wal,  wal ! "  said  Ducklow,  cutting  her  short. 


COUPON  BONDS.  57 

X. 

Reuben's  misfortune. 

Before  resorting  to  public  measures  for  the  recovery  of 
the  stolen  property,  it  was  deemed  expedient  to  acquaint 
their  friends  with  their  loss  in  a  private  way.  The  next 
day,  accordingly,  they  went  to  pay  Reuben  a  visit.  It 
was  a  very  different  meeting  from  that  which  took  place  a 
few  mornings  before.  The  returned  soldier  had  gained  in 
health,  but  not  in  spirits.  The  rapture  of  reaching  home 
once  more,  the  flush  of  hope  and  happiness,  had  passed 
away  with  the  visitors  who  had  flocked  to  off'er  their 
congTatulations.  He  had  had  time  to  reflect  :  he  had 
reached  home,  indeed  ;  but  now  every  moment  reminded 
him  how  soon  that  home  was  to  be  taken  from  him.  He 
looked  at  his  wife  and  children,  and  clenched  his  teeth 
hard  to  stifle  the  emotions  that  arose  at  the  thought  of 
their  future.  The  sweet  serenity,  the  faith  and  patience 
and  cheerfulness,  which  never  ceased  to  illumine  Sophro- 
nia's  face  as  she  moved  about  the  house,  pursuing  her 
daily  tasks,  and  tenderly  waiting  upon  him,  deepened  at 
once  his  love  and  his  solicitude.  He  was  watching  her  thus 
when  the  Ducklows  entered  with  countenances  mournful 
as  the  grave. 

"How  are  you  gittin'  along,  Keuben  T'  said  Ducklow, 
while  his  wife  murmured  a  solemn  "  good  morning "  to 
Sophronia. 

"  I  am  doing  well  enough.  Don't  be  at  all  concerned 
about  me  !  It  a'n't  pleasant  to  lie  here,  and  feel  it  may 
be  months,  months,  before  I  'm  able  to  be  about  my  busi- 
ness ;  but  I  would  n't  mind  it,  —  I  could  stand  it  first-rate, 
—  I  could  stand  anything,  anything,  but  to  see  her  work- 
3* 


58  COUPON  BONDS. 

iiig  her  life  out  for  me  and  the  children  I  To  no  purpose, 
either  ;  that 's  the  worst  of  it.  We  shall  have  to  lose  this 
place,  spite  of  f\xte  !  " 

"  0  Reuben !  "  said  Sophronia,  hastening  to  him,  and 
laying  her  soothing  hands  upon  his  hot  forehead  ;  "  why 
won't  you  stop  thinking  about  that  1  Do  try  to  have  more 
faith  !     We  shall  be  taken  care  of,  I  'm  sure  !  " 

*'  If  I  had  three  thousand  dollars,  — yes,  or  even  two,  — 
then  I  'd  have  faith  !  "  said  Keuben.  "  Miss  Beswick  has 
proposed  to  send  a  subscription-paper  around  town  for  us ; 
but  I  'd  rather  die  than  have  it  done.  Besides,  nothing 
near  that  amount  could  be  raised,  I  'm  confident.  You 
need  n't  groan  so,  Pa  Ducklow,  for  I  ain't  hinting  at  you. 
I  don't  expect  you  to  help  me  out  of  my  trouble.  If  you 
had  felt  called  upon  to  do  it,  you  'd  have  done  it  before 
now ;  and  I  don't  ask,  I  don't  beg  of  any  man  ! "  added 
the  soldier,  proudly. 

"  That 's  right ;  I  like  yer  sperit !  "  said  the  miserable 
Ducklow.  "  But  I  was  sighin'  to  think  of  something,  — 
something  you  have  n't  known  anything  about,  Reuben." 

"  Yes,  Reuben,  we  should  have  helped  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Ducklow,  "  and  did,  did  take  steps  towards  it  —  " 

"  In  fact,"  resumed  Ducklow,  "you've  met  with  a  great 
misfortin',  Reuben.  Unbeknown  to  yourself,  you've  met 
with  a  great  misfortin' !     Yer  Ma  Ducklow  knows." 

"  Yes,  Reuben,  the  very  day  you  come  home,  your  Pa 
Ducklow  made  an  investment  for  your  benefit.  We  did  n't 
mention  it,  —  you  know  I  would  n't  own  up  to  it,  though 
I  did  n't  exactly  say  the  contrary,  the  morning  we  was 
over  here  —  " 

•*  Because,"  said  Ducklow,  as  she  faltered,  "  we  wanted 
to  surprise  you  ;  we  w\as  keepin'  it  a  secret  till  the  right 
time,  then  we  was  goin'  to  make  it  a  pleasant  surprise  to 

ye." 


COUPON  BONDS.  59 

"  What  ill  the  name  of  common  sense  are  you  talking 
about  ] "  cried  Reuben,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  wretched,  prevaricating  pair. 

"  Cowpon  bonds  !  "  groaned  Ducklow.  "  Three  thousan'- 
dollar  cowpon  bonds  !  The  money  had  been  lent,  but  I 
wanted  to  make  a  good  investment  for  you,  and  I  thought 
there  was  nothin'  so  good  as  Gov'ments  —  " 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Reuben.  ''Only,  if  you  had 
money  to  invest  for  my  benefit,  I  should  have  preferred 
to  pay  off  the  mortgage  the  first  thing." 

"  Sartin  !  sartin  !  "  said  Ducklow  ;  "  and  you  could  have 
turned  the  bonds  right  in,  if  you  had  so  chosen,  like  so  much 
cash.  Or  you  could  have  drawed  your  interest  on  the 
bonds  in  gold,  and  paid  the  interest  on  your  mortgage  in 
currency,  and  made  so  much,  as  I  ruther  thought  you 
would." 

"  But  the  bonds  ? "  eagerly  demanded  Reuben,  with 
trembling  hopes,  just  as  Miss  Beswick,  with  her  shawl  over 
her  head,  entered  the  room. 

"We  was  just  telling  about  our  loss,  Reuben's  loss," 
said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  in  a  manner  which  betrayed  no  little 
anxiety  to  conciliate  that  terrible  woman. 

"  Very  well !  don't  let  me  interrupt."  And  Miss  Bes- 
wick, slipping  the  shawl  from  her  head,  sat  down. 

Her  presence,  stiff  and  prim  and  sarcastic,  did  not  tend 
in  the  least  to  relieve  Mr.  Ducklow  from  the  natural  em- 
barrassment he  felt  in  giving  his  version  of  Reuben's  loss. 
However,  assisted  occasionally  by  a  judicious  remark 
thrown  in  by  Mrs.  Ducklow,  he  succeeded  in  telling  a  suf- 
ficiently plausible  and  candid-seeming  story. 


60  COUPON  BONDS. 

XL 

taddy's  financial  operations. 

"  I  SEE !  I  see  ! "  said  Reuben,  who  had  hstened  with  as- 
tonishment and  pain  to  the  narrative.  "  You  had  kinder 
intentions  towards  me  than  I  gave  you  credit  for.  For- 
give me,  if  I  wronged  you  ! "  He  pressed  the  hand  of  his 
adopted  father,  and  thanked  him  from  a  heart  filled  with 
gratitude  and  trouble.  ''  But  don't  feel  so  bad  about  it. 
You  did  what  you  thought  best.  I  can  only  say,  the  fates 
are  against  me." 

"  Hem  ! "  coughing,  Miss  Beswick  stretched  up  her  long 
neck  and  cleared  her  throat.  "  So  them  bonds  you  had 
bought  for  Beuben  was  in  the  house  the  very  night  I 
called  !  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Beswick,"  replied  Mrs.  Ducklow ;  "  and  that 's 
what  made  it  so  imcomfortable  to  us  to  have  you  talk  the 
way  you  did." 

"  Hem  !  "  the  neck  was  stretched  up  still  farther  than 
before,  and  the  redoubtable  throat  cleared  again.  "  'T  w\as 
too  bad  !  Ye  ought  to  have  told  me.  You  'd  actooally 
bought  the  bonds,  —  bought  'em  for  Reuben,  had  ye  1 " 

"  Sartain  !  sartain  !  "  said  Ducklow.j 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow. 

"  We  designed  'em  for  his  benefit,  a  surprise,  w^hen  the 
right  time  come,"  said  both  together. 

*'  Hem  !  well  !  "  (It  was  evident  that  the  Beswick  w^as 
clearing  her  decks  for  action.)  "When  the  right  time 
come  !  yes  !  That  right  time  was  n't  somethin'  indefinite, 
in  the  fur  futur',  of  course  !  Yer  losin'  the  bonds  did  n't 
hurry  up  yer  benevolence  the  least  grain,  I  s'poso  !  Hem  ! 
let  in  them  boys,  Sophrony  !  " 


COUPON   BONDS.  61 

Sophronia  opened  the  door,  and  in  walked  Master  Dick 
Atkins  (son  of  the  brush-burner),  followed,  not  without  re- 
luctance and  concern,  by  Master  Taddy. 

"  Thaddeus  !  what  you  here  for  1 "  demanded  the  adopt- 
ed parents. 

"  Because  I  said  so,"  remarked  Miss  Beswick,  arbitrarily. 
"  Step  along,  boys,  step  along.  Hold  up  yer  head,  Taddy, 
for  ye'  an't  goin'  to  be  hurt  while  I  'm  around.  Take  yer 
fists  out  o'  yer  eyes,  and  stop  blubberin'.  Mr.  Ducklow, 
that  boy  knows  somethin'  about  Reuben's  cowpon  bonds." 

"  Thaddeus  !  "  ejaculated  both  Ducklows  at  once,  "  did 
you  touch  them  bonds  1 " 

"  Did  n't  know  what  they  was  !  "  whimpered  Taddy. 

"Did  you  take  theml"  And  the  female  Ducklow 
grasped  his  shoulder. 

"  Hands  off,  if  you  please  ! "  remarked  Miss  Beswick, 
w4th  frightfully  gleaming  courtesy.  "  I  told  him,  if  he  'd 
be  a  good  boy,  and  come  along  with  Bichard,  and  tell  the 
truth,  he  should  n't  be  hurt.  If  you  please,"  she  repeated, 
with  a  majestic  nod  ;  and  Mrs.  Ducklow  took  her  hands  off. 

"  Where  are  they  now  1  where  are  they  1 "  cried  Duck- 
low, rushing  headlong  to  the  main  question. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Taddy. 

"  Don't  know  1  you  villain  !  "  And  Ducklow  was  rising  in 
wrath.     But  Miss  Beswick  put  up  her  hand  deprecatingly. 

"  If  2/ou  please  ! "  she  said,  with  grim  civility ;  and 
Ducklow  sank  down  again. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  'em  1  what  did  you  want  of 
'em  1 "  said  Mrs.  Ducklow,  with  difficulty  restraining  an 
impulse  to  wring  his  neck. 

'^  To  cover  my  kite,"  confessed  the  miserable  Taddy. 

"  Cover  your  kite  !  'your  kite  ! "  A  chorus  of  groans 
from  the  Ducklows.      "  Did  n't  you  know  no  better  1 " 

"  Did  n't  think  you  'd  care,"  said  Taddy.      "  I  had  some 


62  COUPON  BONDS. 

newspapers  Dick  give  me  to  cover  it ;  but  I  thought  them 
things  'u'd  be  pootier.  So  I  took  'em,  and  put  the  news- 
papers in  the  wrapper." 

"  Did  ye  cover  yer  kite  ? " 

"  No.  When  I  found  out  you  cared  so  much  about  'em, 
I  da's'n't ;  I  w^as  afraid  you  'd  see  'em." 

"  Then  what  did  you  do  with  'em." 

"When  you  was  away,  Dick  come  over  to  sleep  with 
me,  and  I  —  I  sold  'em  to  him  !  " 

"  Sold  'em  to  Dick  ! " 

"Yes,"  spoke  up  Dick,  stoutly,  "for  six  marbles,  and 
one  was  a  bull's-eye,  and  one  agate,  and  two  alleys.  Then, 
when  you  come  home  and  made  such  a  fuss,  he  wanted  'em 
ag'in.  But  he  would  n't  give  me  back  but  four,  and  I 
wa'n't  going -to  agi-ee  to  no  such  nonsense  as  that." 

"  I  'd  lost  the  bull's-eye  and  one  common,"  w^hined 
Taddy. 

"  But  the  bonds  !  did  you  destroy  'em  % " 

"  Likely  I  'd  do  that,  after  I  'd  paid  six  marbles  for 
'em  !  "  said  Dick.      "  I  w^anted  'em  to  cover  my  kite  wdth." 

"  Cover  your  —  oh  !  then  you  've  made  a  kite  of  'em  !  " 
groaned  Ducklow. 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to,  w^hen  Aunt  Beswick  ketched  me 
at  it.  She  made  me  tell  where  I  got  'em,  and  took  me 
over  to  your  house  jest  now ;  and  Taddy  said  you  was  over 
here,  and  so  she  put  ahead,  and  made  us  foller  her." 

Again,  in  an  agony  of  impatience,  Ducklow  demanded  to 
know  where  the  bonds  were  at  that  moment. 

"  If  Taddy  '11  give  me  back  the  marbles  —  "  began  Mas- 
ter Dick. 

"  That  '11  do  !  "  said  Miss  Beswick,  silencing  him  with  a 
gesture.  "  Reuben  will  give  you  twenty  marbles ;  for  I 
believe  you  said  they  was  Reuben's  bonds,  j\Ir.  Ducklow  T' 

"  Yes,  that  is  —  "  stammered  the  adopted  father 


COUPON  BONDS.  63 

"  Eventooally,"  struck  in  the  adopted  mother. 

"  Now  look  here  !  What  am  I  to  understand  ]  Be  they 
Reuben's  bonds,  or  be  they  not  1  That 's  the  question  !  " 
And  there  was  that  in  Miss  Beswick's  look  which  said,  "  If 
they  are  not  Reuben's,  then  they  are  nobody's  !  " 

"  Of  course  they  are  Reuben's  !  "  "  We  intended  all 
the  while  —  "  ''His  benefit  —  "  "To  do  jest  what  he 
pleases  with  'em,"  chorused  Pa  and  Ma  Ducklow. 

"  Wal !  now  it 's  understood  !  Here,  Reuben,  are  your 
cowpon  bonds  ! " 

And  Miss  Beswick,  drawing  them  from  her  bosom,  placed 
the  precious  documents,  with  formal  politeness,  in  the  glad 
soldier's  agitated  hands. 

"  Glory  !  "  cried  Reuben,  assuring  himself  that  they  were 
genuine  and  real.  "  Sophrony,  you  've  got  a  home  !  Ruby, 
Carrie,  you  've  got  a  home  !  Miss  Beswick  !  you  angel 
from  the  skies  !  order  a  bushel  of  marbles  for  Dick,  and 
have  the  bill  sent  to  me  !  0  Pa  Ducklow  !  you  never  did 
a  nobler  or  more  generous  thing  in  your  life.  These  will 
lift  the  mortgage,  and  leave  me  a  nest-egg  besides.  Then 
when  I  get  my  back  pay,  and  my  pension,  and  my  health 
again,  we  shall  be  independent." 

And  the  soldier,  overcome  by  his  feelings,  sank  back  in 
the  arms  of  his  wife. 

"  We  always  told  you  Ave  'd  do  well  by  ye,  you  remem- 
ber 1 "  said  the  Ducklows,  triumphantly. 

The  news  went  abroad.  Again  congratulations  poured 
in  upon  the  returned  volunteer.  Everybody  rejoiced  in 
his  good  fortune,  —  especially  certain  rich  ones,  who  had 
been  dreading  to  see  Miss  Beswick  come  around  with  her 
proposed  subscription-paper. 

Among  the  rest,  the  Ducklows  rejoiced  not  the  least ; 
for  selfishness  was  with  them,  as  it  is  with  many,  rather  a 
thing  of  habit  than  a  fault  of  the  heart.     The  catastrophe 


64  COUPON  BONDS. 

of  the  bonds  broke  up  that  life-long  habit,  and  revealed 
good  hearts  underneath.  The  consciousness  of  having 
done  an  act  of  justice,  although  by  accident,  proved  very 
sweet  to  them  ;  it  was  really  a  fresh  sensation  ;  and  Reu- 
ben and  his  dear  little  family,  saved  from  ruin  and  dis- 
tress, happy,  thankful,  glad,  were  a  sight  to  their  old  eyes 
such  as  they  had  never  witnessed  before.  Not  gold  itself, 
in  any  quantity,  at  the  highest  premium,  could  have  given 
them  so  much  satisfaction  ;  and  as  for  coupon  bonds,  they 
are  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  comparison. 

"  Won't  you  do  well  by  me  some  time,  too  1 "  teased 
little  Taddy,  who  overheard  his  adopted  parents  congratu- 
lating themselves  on  having  acted  so  generously  by  Reu- 
ben. "  I  don't  care  for  no  cowpen  bonds,  but  I  do  want  a 
new  drum !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  son ! "  said  Ducklow,  patting  the  boy's 
shoulder. 

And  the  drum  was  bought. 

Taddy  was  delighted.  But  he  did  not  know  what  made 
the  Ducklows  so  much  happier,  so  much  gentler  and 
kinder,  than  formerly.     Do  you  1 


MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 


ONE  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  November,  1855, 1  met 
on  the    Avenue   des  Champs  Elysees,   in  Paris,  my 

young  friend  Herbert  J . 

After  many  desolate  days  of  wind  and  rain  and  falling 
leaves,  the  city  had  thrown  off  her  wet  rags,  so  to  speak, 
and  arrayed  herself  in  the  gorgeous  apparel  of  one  of  the 
most  golden  and  perfect  Sundays  of  the  season.  "  All  the 
world"  was  out  of  doors.  The  Boulevards,  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  the  bridges  over  the  Seine,  all  the  public  prome- 
nades and  gardens,  swarmed  with  joj'cus  multitudes.  The 
Champs  Eh'sees,  and  the  long  avenue  leading  up  to  the 
Barriere  de  I'Etoile,  appeared  one  mighty  river,  an  Amazon 
of  many-colored  human  life.  The  finest  July  weather  had 
not  produced  such  a  superb  display ;  for  now  the  people 
of  fashion,  who  had  passed  the  summer  at  their  country- 
seats,  or  in  Switzerland,  or  among  the  PjTcnees,  reaj^pearcd 
in  their  showy  equipages.  The  tide,  which  had  been  flow- 
ing to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  ever  since  two  o'clock,  had 
turned,  and  was  pouring  back  into  Paris.  For  miles,  up 
and  down,  on  either  side  of  the  city-wall,  extended  the 
glittering  train  of  vehicles.  The  three  broad,  open  gate- 
ways of  the  Barriere  proved  insufficient  channels ;  and 
far  as  you  could  see,  along  the  Avenue  de  I'lmperatrice, 
stood  three  seemingly  endless  rows  of  carriages,  closely 
crowded,  unable  to  advance,  waiting  f(jr  the  Barriere  de 
I'Etoile  to  discharge  its  surplus    living   waters.     Detach- 


66  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

merits  of  the  mounted  city  guard,  and  long  lines  of  police, 
regulated  the  flow ;  while  at  the  Barriere  an  extra  force  of 
cus!om-house  officers  fulfilled  the  necessarj^  formality  of 
casting  an  eye  of  inspection  into  each  vehicle  as  it  passed, 
to  see  that  nothing  was  smuggled. 

Just  below  the  Ban^iere,  as  I  was  moving  with  the 
stream  of  pedestrians,  I  met  Herbert.  He  turned  and 
took  my  arm.  As  he  did  so,  I  noticed  that  he  lifted  his 
hat  towards  heaven,  saluting  with  a  lofty  flourish  one  of 
the  carriages  that  passed  the  gate. 

It  was  a  dashy  barouche,  drawn  by  a  glossy -black  span, 
and  occupied  by  two  ladies  and  a  lapdog.  A  driver  on  the 
box  and  a  footman  perched  behind,  both  in  livery,  —  long 
coats,  white  gloves,  and  gold  bands  on  their  hats,  —  com- 
pleted the  establishment.  The  ladies  sat  facing  each  other, 
and  their  mingled,  eff'ervescing  skirts  and  flounces  filled 
the  cup  of  the  vehicle  quite  to  over-foaming,  like  a  Rochelle 
powder,  nearly  drowning  the  brave  spaniel,  whose  sturdy 
little  nose  was  elevated,  for  air,  just  above  the  surge. 

Both  ladies  recognized  my  friend,  and  she  who  sat,  dr 
rather  reclined  (for  such  a  luxurious,  languishing  attitude 
can  hardly  be  called  a  sitting  posture),  fairy-like,  in 
the  hinder  part  of  the  shell,  bestowed  upon  him  a  very 
gracious,  condescending  smile.  She  was  a  most  imposing 
creature,  —  in  freshness  of  complexion,  in  physical  develop- 
ment, and,  above  all,  in  amplitude  and  magnificence  of  at- 
tire, a  full-blown  rose  of  a  woman,  —  aged,  I  should  say, 
about  forty. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  turn-out  ?  "  said  Herbert,  as  the 
shallop  with  its  lovely  freight  floated  on  in  the  current. 

I  was  not  so  fortunate. 

"  Good  gracious  !  miserable  man  !  Where  do  you  live  1 
In  what  obscure  society  have  you  buried  yourself?  Not 
to  know  Madam  Waldoborough's  Carriage  !  " 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  G7 

This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of  humorous  extravagance 
which  piqued  my  curiosity.  Behind  the  ostentatious  defer- 
ence with  which  he  had  raised  his  hat  to  the  sky,  beneath 
the  respectful  awe  with  which  he  spoke  the  lady's  name,  I 
detected  a  spirit  of  mischief. 

"  Who  is  Madam  Waldoborough  1  and  what  about  her 
carriage  1 " 

"  Who  is  Madam  Waldoborough  ! "  echoed  Herbert,  with 
mock  astonishment ;  "  that  a  Yankee,  six  months  in 
Paris,  should  ask  that  question  !  An  American  woman, 
and  a  woman  of  fortune,  sir ;  and,  which  is  more,  of  fash- 
ion ;  and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any 
in  Messina  or  elsewhere ;  —  one  that  occupies  a  position, 
go  to  !  and  receives  on  Thursday  evenings,  go  to  !  and 
that  hath  ambassadors  at  her  table,  and  everything  hand- 
some about  her  !  And  as  for  her  carriage,"  he  continued, 
coming  down  from  his  Dogberrian  strain  of  eloquence,  "  it 
is  the  identical  carriage  which  1  did  n't  ride  in  once  ! " 

''How  was  that  r' 

*'  I  '11  tell  you  ;  for  it  was  a  curious  adventure,  and  as  it 
was  a  very  useful  lesson  to  me,  so  you  may  take  warning 
by  my  experience,  and,  if  ever  she  invites  you  to  ride  with 
her,  as  she  did  me,  beware  !  beware  !  her  flashing  eyes,  her 
floating  hair !  —  do  not  accept,  or,  before  accepting,  take 
lago's  advice,  and  put  money  in  your  purse  :  put  money 
IN  YOUR  PURSE  !    I  '11  tell  you  why. 

"  But,  in  the  fii'St  place,  I  must  explain  how  I  came  to 
be  without  money  in  mine,  so  soon  after  arriving  in  Paris, 
where  so  much  of  the  article  is  necessary.  My  woes  all 
arise  from  vanity.  That  is  the  rock,  that  is  the  quicksand, 
that  is  the  maelstrom.  I  presume  you  don't  know  anybody 
else  who  is  afflicted  with  that  complaint  1  If  you  do,  I  '11 
but  teach  you  how  to  tell  my  story,  and  that  will  cure 
him  3  or,  at  least,  it  ought  to. 


68  MADAM   WALDOBO ROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

"  You  see,  in  crossing  over  to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer, 
I  became  acquainted  with  a  charming  young  lady,  who 
proved  to  be  a  second-cousin  of  my  father's.  She  belongs 
to  the  aristocratic  branch  of  our  family.  Every  family 
tree  has  an  aristocratic  branch,  or  bough,  or  little  twig  at 
least,  T  believe.  She  was  a  Todworth  ;  and  having  always 
heard  my  other  relations  mention  with  immense  pride  and 
respect  the  Todworths,  —  as  if  it  were  one  of  the  solid  sat- 
isfactions of  life  to  be  able  to  speak  of  '  my  uncle  Tod- 
worth,' or  '  my  cousins  the  Todworths,'  —  I  was  prepared 
to  appreciate  my  extreme  good  fortune.  She  was  a  bride, 
setting  out  on  her  wedding  tour.  She  had  married  a  sal- 
low, bilious,  perfumed,  very  disagreeable  fellow,  —  except 
that  he  too  was  an  aristocrat,  and  a  millionnaire  besides, 
which  made  him  very  agreeable ;  at  least,  I  thought  so. 
For  that  was  before  I  rode  in  Madam  Waldoborough's  car- 
riage. 

"  Well,  the  fair  bride  was  most  gratifyingly  affable,  and 
cousined  me  to  my  heart's  content.  Her  husband  was  no 
less  friendly ;  and  by  the  time  we  reached  London  I  was 
on  as  affectionately  familiar  terms  with  them  as  a  younger 
brother  could  have  been.  If  I  had  been  a  Todworth,  they 
could  n't  have  made  more  of  me.  They  insisted  on  my 
going  to  the  same  hotel  with  them,  and  taking  a  room  ad- 
joinmg  their  suite.  This  was  a  happiness  to  which  I  had 
but  one  objection,  — my  limited  pecuniary  resources.  My 
family  are  neither  aristocrats  nor  millionfiaires  ;  and  econo- 
my required  that  I  should  place  myself  in  humble  and  in- 
expensive lodgings  for  the  two  or  three  weeks  I  was  to 
spend  in  London.  But  vanity  !  vanity  !  I  was  afraid  of 
disgracing  my  branch  of  the  family  in  the  eyes  of  the  Tod- 
worth branch,  and  of  losing  the  fine  friends  I  had  made,  by 
confessing  my  poverty.  They  went  to  Cox's  Hotel,  in 
Jcrmyn  Street,  and  I  went  with  them. 


MADAM  WALDOEOROUGH'S   CARKIAGE.  69 

"  Cox's,  I  fancy,  is  the  crack  hotel  of  Loudon.  Lady 
Byron  boarded  there  then  ;  the  author  of  '  Childe  Harold ' 
himself  used  to  stop  there ;  Tom  Moore  wrote  a  few  of 
his  last  songs  and  drank  a  good  many  of  his  last  bottles 
of  wine  there ;  my  Lords  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  —  the 
Duke  of  Dash,  Sir  Edward  Splash,  and  Viscount  Flash,  — 
these  and  other  notables  always  honor  Cox's  when  they  go 
to  town.  So  lue  honored  Cox's.  And  a  very  quiet,  order- 
ly, well-kept  tavern  we  found  it.  I  think  Mr.  Cox  must 
have  a  good  housekeeper.  He  has  been  fortunate  in  se- 
curing a  very  excellent  cook.  I  should  judge  that  he  had 
engaged  some  of  the  finest  gentlemen  in  England  to  act  as 
waiters.  Their  manners  would  do  credit  to  any  potentate 
in  Europe  :  there  is  that  calm  self-possession  about  them, 
that  serious  dignity  of  deportment,  sustained  by  a  secure 
sense  of  the  mighty  importance  of  their  mission  to  the 
world,  which  strikes  a  beholder  with  awe.  I  was  made  to 
feel  very  inferior  in  their  presence.  We  dined  at  a  private 
table,  and  these  ministers  of  state  waited  upon  us.  They 
brought  us  the  morning  paper  on  a  silver  salver;  they 
presented  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  mission  from  a  king  to  a 
king.  Whenever  we  went  out  or  came  in,  there  stood  two 
of  those  magnates,  in  white  waistcoats  and  white  gloves, 
to  open  the  folding-doors  for  us,  with  stately  mien.  You 
would  have  said  it  was  the  Lord  High  Chamberlain  and 
his  deputy,  and  that  I  was  at  least  Minister  Plenipotentiary 
to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  1  tried  to  receive  these  over- 
powering attentions  with  an  air  of  easy  indifference,  like 
one  who  had  been  all  his  life  accustomed  to  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know  ;  but  I  was  oppressed  with  a  terrible  sense 
of  being  out  of  my  place.  I  could  n't  help  feeling  that 
their  serene  and  lofty  highnesses  knew  perfectly  well  that 
I  was  a  green  Yankee  boy,  with  less  than  fifty  pounds  in 
my  pocket ;  and  1  fancied  that,  behind  the  mask  of  gravity 


70  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGirS   CARRIAGE. 

each  imperturbable  countenance  wore,  there  was  always 
lurking  a  derisive  smile. 

'*  But  this  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  If  noblemen  were 
my  attendants,  I  must  expect  to  maintain  noblemen.  All 
that  ceremony  and  deportment  must  go  into  the  bill. 
With  this  view  of  the  case,  I  could  not  look  at  their  white 
kids  without  feeling  sick  at  heart ;  white  waistcoats  be- 
came a  terror;  the  sight  of  an  august  neckcloth,  bowing 
its  solemn  attentions  to  me,  depressed  my  soul.  The 
folding-doors,  on  golden  hinges  turning,  —  figuratively,  at 
least,  if  not  literally,  like  those  of  Milton's  heaven,  — 
gi'ated  as  horrible  discords  on  my  secret  ear  as  the  gates 
of  Milton's  other  place.  It  was  my  gold  that  helped  to 
make  those  hinges.  And  this  I  endured  merely  for  the 
sake  of  enjoying  the  society,  not  of  my  dear  newly  found 
cousins,  but  of  two  phantoms  that  hovered  over  their 
heads,  —  the  phantom  of  wealth  and  the  still  more  empty 
phantom  of  social  position.  But  all  this,  understand,  was 
before  I  rode  in  Madam  Waldoborough's  carriage. 

"  Well,  I  saw  London  in  company  with  my  aristocratic 
relatives,  and  paid  a  good  deal  more  for  the  show,  and 
really  profited  less  by  it,  than  if  I  had  gone  about  the 
business  in  my  own  deliberate  and  humble  way.  Every- 
thing was,  of  course,  done  in  the  most  lordly  and  costly 
manner  known.  Instead  of  walking  to  this  place  or  that, 
or  taking  an  omnibus  or  a  cab,  we  rolled  magnificently  in 
our  carriage.  I  suppose  the  happy  bridegroom  would 
willingly  have  defrayed  all  these  expenses,  if  I  had  wished 
him  to  do  so ;  but  pride  prompted  me  to  pay  my  share. 
So  it  happened  that,  during  nine  days  in  London,  I  spent 
as  much  as  would  have  lasted  me  as  many  weeks,  if  I  had 
been  as  wise  as  I  was  vain,  —  that  is,  if  I  had  ridden  in 
Madam  Waldoborough's  carriage  before  I  went  to  England. 

"  When  I  saw  how  things  were  going,  bankruptcy  staring 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  71 

me  in  the  ftice,  ruin  yawning  at  my  feet,  I  was  suddenly 
seized  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  go  on  to  Paris.  I  had 
a  French  fever  of  the  most  violent  character.  I  declared 
myself  sick  of  the  soot  and  smoke  and  uproar  of  the  great 
Babel,  —  I  even  spoke  slightingly  of  Cox's  Hotel,  as  if  I 
had  been  used  to  better  things,  '^-  and  called  for  my  bill. 
Heavens  and  earth,  how  I  trembled  !  Did  ever  a  con- 
demned wretch  feel  as  faint  at  the  sight  of  the  priest  com- 
ing to  bid  him  prepare  for  the  gallows,  as  I  did  at  the 
sight  of  one  of  those  sublime  functionaries  bringing  me  my 
doom  on  a  silver  salver  1  Every  pore  opened ;  a  clammy 
perspiration  broke  out  all  over  me ;  I  reached  forth  a 
shaking  hand,  and  thanked  his  highness  with  a  ghastly 
smile. 

*'A  few  figures  told  my  fate.  The  convict  who  hears 
his  death-sentence  may  still  hope  for  a  reprieve  ;  but  figures 
are  inexorable,  figures  cannot  lie.  My  bill  at  Cox's  was  in 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  amounting  to  just  eleven  dol- 
lars a  day.  Eleven  times  nine  are  ninety-nine.  It  was  so 
near  a  round  hundred,  it  seemed  a  bitter  mockery  not  to 
say  a  hundred,  and  have  done  with  it,  instead  of  scrupu- 
lously stopping  to  consider  a  single  paltry  dollar.  I  was 
reminded  of  the  boy  whose  father  bragged  of  killing  nine 
hundred  and  ninetyTuine  pigeons  at  one  shot.  Somebody 
asked  why  he  did  n't  say  a  thousand.  '  Thunder  ! '  says 
the  boy,  '  do  you  suppose  my  father  would  lie  just  for  one 
pigeon  1 '  I  told  the  story,  to  show  my  cousins  how  coolly 
I  received  the  bill,  and  paid  it. 

"■  This  drained  my  purse  so  nearly  dry  that  I  had  only 
just  money  enough  left  to  take  me  to  Paris,  and  pay  for  a 
week's  lodging  or  so  in  advance.  They  urged  me  to  re- 
main and  go  to  Scotland  with  them  ;  but  I  tore  myself 
away,  and  fled  to  France.  I  would  not  permit  them  to 
accompany  me  to  the  railroad  station,  to  see  me  off;  for  I 


72  MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S  CARRIAGE. 

was  unwilling  that  they  should  know  I  was  going  to  econ- 
omize my  finances  by  purchasing  a  second-class  ticket. 
From  the  life  I  had  been  leading  at  Cox's  to  a  second-class 
passage  to  Paris  was  that  step  from  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous  which  I  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  taking.  I  think 
I  'd  have  thrown  myself  into  the  Thames  before  I  would 
thus  have  exposed  myself;  for,  as  I  tell  you,  I  had  not  yet 
been  honored  with  a  seat  in  Madam  Waldoborough's  car- 
riage.   . 

"  It  is  certainly  a  grand  thing  to  keep  grand  company  ; 
but  if  ever  I  felt  a  sense  of  relief,  it  was  when  I  found  my- 
self free  from  my  cousins,  emancipated  from  the  fearful 
bondage  of  keeping  up  such  expensive  appearances, — 
seated  on  the  hard,  cushionless  bench  of  the  second-class 
car,  and  nibbling  my  crackers  at  my  leisure,  unoppressed 
by  the  awful  presence  of  those  grandees  in  white  waist- 
coats. The  crackers  tasted  sweeter  than  Cox's  best  dinners. 
I  nibbled,  and  contemplated  my  late  experiences ;  nibbled, 
and  was  almost  persuaded  to  be  a  Christian,  —  that  is,  to 
forswear  thenceforth  and  forever  all  company  which  I  could 
not  afford  to  keep,  all  appearances  which  were  not  honest, 
all  foolish  pride  and  silly  ambition  ;  —  as  I  did  after  I  had 
ridden  in  a  certain  carriage  I  have  mentioned,  and  which  I 
am  coming  to  now  as  fast  as  possible. 

"  I  had  lost  nearly  all  my  money  and  a  good  share  of 
my  self-respect  by  the  course  I  had  taken,  and  I  could 
think  of  only  one  substantial  advantage  gained.  That  was 
a  note  of  introduction  from  my  lovely  cousin  to  ]\Iadam 
Waldoborough.  That  would  be  of  inestimable  value  to  me 
in  Paris.  It  would  give  me  access  to  the  best  society,  and 
secure  to  me,  a  stranger,  many  privileges  which  could  not 
otherwise  be  obtained.  'Perhaps,  after  all,'  thought  I,  as 
I  read  over  the  flattering  contents  of  the  unsealed  note,  — 
*  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  find  this  worth  quite  as  much 


MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S  CARRIAGE.  73 

as  it  has  cost  me.'  0,  had  I  foreseen  that  it  was  actually 
destined  to  procure  me  an  invitation  to  ride  with  Madam 
Waldoborough  ! 

"  I  reached  Paris,  took  a  cheap  lodging,  and  w\aited  for 
the  arrival  of  my  uncle's  goods  destined  for  the  Great  Ex- 
hibition, —  for  to  look  after  them  (I  could  speak  French, 
you  know),  and  to  assist  in  having  them  properly  placed, 
was  the  main  business  that  had  brought  me  here.  1  also 
waited  anxiously  for  my  uncle  and  a  fresh  supply  of  funds. 
In  the  mean  time  I  delivered  my  letters  of  introduction, 
and  made  a  few  acquaintances.  Twice  I  called  at  :\Iadam 
Waldoborough's  hotel,  but  did  not  see  her ;  she  was  out. 
So  at  least  the  servants  said,  but  I  suspect  they  lied  ;  for, 
the  second  time  I  was  told  so,  1  noticed,  0,  the  most  splen- 
did turn-out  !  —  the  same  you  just  saw  pass  —  waiting  in 
the  carriage-way  before  her  door,  with  the  driver  on  the 
box,  and  the  footman  holding  open  the  silver-handled  and 
escutchioned  panel  that  served  as  a  door  to  the  barouche, 
as  if  expecting  some  grand  personage  to  get  in. 

"  ' Some  distinguished  visitor,  perhaps,'  thought  I ;  'or, 
it  may  be  Madam  Waldoborough  herself;  instead  of  being 
out,  she  is  just  going  out,  and  in  five  minutes  the  servant's 
lie  will  be  the  truth.'  Sure  enough,  before  I  left  the  street 
—  for  I  may  as  well  confess  that  curiosity  caused  me  to 
linger  a  little  —  my  lady  herself  appeared  in  all  her  glory, 
and  bounced  into  the  barouche  with  a  vigor  that  made  it 
rock  quite  unromantically  ;  for  she  is  not  frail,  she  is  not 
a  butterfly,  she  is  not  a  wasp.  I  recognized  her  from  a 
description  I  had  received  from  my  cousin  the  bride.  She 
w^as  accompanied  by  that  meagre,  smart  little  sprite  of  a 
French  girl,  whom  Madam  always  takes  with  her,  —  to 
talk  French  with,  and  to  be  waited  upon  by  her,  she  says ; 
but  rather,  I  believe,  by  way  of  a  contrast  to  set  off  her 
own  brilliant  complexion  and  imperial  proportions.  It  is 
4 


74  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

Juno  aud  Arachne.  The  divine  orbs  of  the  goddess  turned 
haughtily  upon  me,  but  did  not  see  me,  —  looked  through 
and  beyond  me,  as  if  I  had  been  nothing  but  gossamer, 
feathers,  air;  and  the  little  black,  bead-like  eyes  of  the 
insect  pierced  me  maliciously  an  instant,  as  the  barouche 
dashed  past,  and  disaj^peared  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  I  was 
humiliated ;  I  felt  that  I  was  recognized,  —  known  as  the 
rash  youth  Avho  had  just  called  at  the  Hotel  de  \Yaldo- 
borough,  been  told  that  Madam  was  out,  and  had  stopped 
outside  to  catch  the  hotel  in  a  lie.  It  is  very  singular  — 
how  do  you  explain  if?  —  that  the  circumstance  should 
have  seemed  to  me  something,  not  for  Madam,  but 
for  me,  to  be  ashamed  of !  I  don't  believe  that  the  color 
of  her  peachy  cheeks  was  heightened  the  shadow  of  a 
shade  ;  but  as  for  me,  I  blushed  to  the  tips  of  my  ears. 

"You  may  believe  that  I  did  not  go  away  in  such  a 
cheerful  frame  of  mind  as  might  have  encouraged  me  to 
repeat  my  call  in  a  hurry.  I  just  coldly  enclosed  to  her 
my  cousin's  letter  of  introduction,  along  with  my  address, 
and  said  to  myself,  '  Now,  she  '11  know  what  a  dense  of  a 
fellow  she  has  slighted  ;  she  '11  know  she  has  put  an  affront 
upon  a  connection  of  the  Todworths  ! '  Very  silly,  you 
see,  for  I  had  not  yet  —  but  I  am  coming  to  that  part  of 
my  story. 

"  Well,  returning  to  my  lodgings  a  few  days  afterwards, 
I  found  a  note  which  had  been  left  for  me  by  a  liveried 
footman,  —  jVIadam  Waldoborough's  footman,  0  heaven  ! 
I  was  thrown  into  great  trepidation  by  the  stupendous 
event,  and  eagerly  inquired  if  Madam  herself  was  in  her 
carriage,  and  was  immensely  relieved  to  learn  she  was  not ; 
for,  unspeakably  gratifying  as  such  condescension,  such  an 
Olympian  compliment,  would  have  been  under  other  circum- 
stances, I  should  have  felt  it  more  than  offset  by  the  morti- 
fication of  knowing  that  she  knew,  that  her  own  eyes  had 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  75 

beheld,  the  very  humble  quarter  in  which  a  lack  of  means 
had  compelled  me  to  put  up. 

"  I  turned  from  that  frightful  possibility  to  the  note  it- 
self. It  was  everything  I  could  have  asked.  It  was  am- 
brosia, it  was  nectar.  I  had  done  a  big  thing  when  I  fired 
the  Todworth  gun  :  it  had  brought  the  enemy  to  terms. 
My  cousin  w^as  complimented,  and  I  was  welcomed  to 
Paris,  and  —  the  Hotel  Waldoborough  ! 

"  '  Why  have  you  not  called  to  see  me  ? '  the  note  in- 
quired, w^ith  charming  innocence.  '  I  shall  be  at  home  -to- 
morrow morning  at  two  o'clock ;  cannot  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  greeting  so  near  a  relative  of  my  dear,  delight- 
ful Louise  1 ' 

"  Of  course  I  could  afford  her  that  pleasure  !  '  0,  what 
a  thing  it  is,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  to  be  a  third  cousin  to  a 
Todworth  ! '  But  the  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  —  how 
should  I  manage  that  1  I  had  not  supposed  that  fashion- 
able people  in  Paris  got  up  so  early,  much  less  received 
visitors  at  that  wonderful  hour.  But,  on  reflection,  I  con- 
cluded that  two  in  the  morning  meant  two  in  the  after- 
noon;  for  I  had  heard  that  the  great  folks  commenced 
their  day  at  about  that  time. 

'-  At  two  o'clock,  accordingly,  the  next  afternoon,  —  ex- 
cuse me,  I  mean  the  next  morning,  —  I  sallied  forth  from 
my  little  baiTen  room  in  the  Kue  des  Yieux  Augustins, 
and  proceeded  to  Madam's  ancient  palace  in  the  Rue  St. 
Martin,  dressed  in  my  best,  and  palpitating  with  a  sense 
of  the  honor  I  was  doing  myself.  This  time  the  concierge 
smiled  encouragingly,  and  ascertained  for  me  that  Madam 
ivas  at  home.  I  ascended  the  polished  marble  staircase  to 
a  saloon  on  the  first  floor,  where  I  was  requested  to  have 
the  ohligeance  dcdtendre  mi  'petit  moment^  until  Madam 
should  be  informed  of  my  arrival. 

"  It  was  a  very  large,  and,  I  must  admit,  a  very  respect- 


76  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

able  saloon,  although  not  exactly  what  I  had  expected  to 
see  at  the  very  summit  of  the  social  Olympus.  I  dropped 
into  a  fauteuil  near  a  centre-table,  on  which  there  was  a 
fantastical  silver-wrought  card-basket.  What  struck  me 
particularly  about  the  basket  was  a  well-known  little  Tod- 
worth  envelope,  superecribed  in  the  delicate  handwriting 
of  my  aristocratic  cousin,  —  my  letter  of  introduction,  in 
fact,  —  displayed  upon  the  very  top  of  the  pile  of  billets 
and  cards.  My  own  card  I  did  not  see  ;  but  in  looking  for 
it  I  discovered  some  curious  specimens  of  foreign  or- 
thogi-aphy,  —  particularly  one  dainty  little  note  on  which 
the  name  was  conscientiously  and  industriously  written 
out,  '  Oudldobeureau.''  This,  as  an  instance  of  spelling  an 
English  word  a  la  FraiK^aise,  I  thought  a  remarkable  suc- 
cess, and  very  creditable  to  people  who  speak  of  Lor  Be- 
rong,  meaning  Lord  Byron,  (Be-ivroiig  is  good!)  and  talk 
glibly  about  Frongclang,  and  Vashangtong,  meaning  the 
great  philosopher,  and  the  Father  of  his  Country. 

"  I  was  trying  to  amuse  myself  with  these  orthographical 
curiosities,  yet  waiting  anxiously  all  the  while  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  illustrious  ornament  of  her  sex,  to  whom 
they  were  addressed  ;  and  the  servant's  'petit  moment '  had 
become  a  good  quart  dlieure,  when  the  drawing-room  door 
opened,  and  in  glided,  not  the  Goddess,  but  the  Spider. 

"  She  had  come  to  beg  Monsieur  (that  was  me)  to  have 
the  bounty  to  excuse  Madam  (that  was  the  Waldoborough), 
who  had  caused  herself  to  be  waited  for,  and  who,  I  was 
assured,  would  give  herself  '  le  plaisir  de  me  voir  dans  un, 
tout  petit  moment.'  So  saying,  with  a  smile,  she  seated 
herself;  and,  discovering  that  I  was  an  American,  began 
to  talk  bad  English  to  me.  I  may  say  execrable  English  ; 
for  it  is  a  habit  your  Frenchwoman  often  has,  to  abandon 
her  own  facile  and  fluent  vernacular,  which  she  speaks  so 
charmingly,  in  order  to  show  off  a  wretched  smattering  she 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGirS   CARRIAGE,  77 

may  have  acquired  of  your  language,  —  from  politeness, 
possibly,  and  possibly  from  vanity.  In  the  mean  time 
Arachne  busied  her  long  agile  fingers  with  some  very  ap- 
propriate embroidery  ;  and  busied  her  mind,  too,  I  could  n't 
help  thinking,  weaving  some  intricate  web  of  mischief,  — 
for  her  eyes  sparkled  as  they  looked  at  me  with  a  certain 
gleeful,  malicious  expression,  —  seeming  to  say,  '  You  have 
walked  into  my  parlor,  Mr.  Fly,  and  I  am  sure  to  entangle 
you  ! '  which  made  me  feel  uncomfortable. 

"  The  '  tout  petit  moment '  had  become  another  good 
quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  door  again  opened,  and  Mad- 
am —  Madam  herself —  the  Waldoborough  —  appeared  ! 
Did  you  ever  see  flounces  1  did  you  ever  witness  expan- 
sion %  have  your  eyes  ever  beheld  the  —  so  to  speak  — 
new-risen  sun  trailing  clouds  of  glory  over  the  threshold  of 
the  dawn  ]  You  should  have  seen  Madam  enter  that 
room  ;  you  should  have  seen  the  effulgence  of  the  greeting 
smile  she  gave  me  ;  then  you  w^ould  n't  wonder  that  I  was 
dazzled. 

•'  She  filled  and  overflowed  with  her  magnificence  the 
most  royal  fauteuil  in  the  saloon,  and  talked  to  me  of  my 
Tod  worth  cousin,  and  of  my  Tod  worth  cousin's  husband, 
and  of  London,  and  of  America,  —  occasionally  turning 
aside  to  show  off  her  bad  French  by  speaking  to  the  Spider, 
until  another  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed.  Then  Paris 
was  mentioned,  and  one  of  us  happened  to  speak  of  the 
Gobehns,  —  I  cannot  now  recall  which  it  was  first  uttered 
that  fatal  word  to  me,  the  direful  spring  of  woes  unnum- 
bered !  Had  I  visited  the  Gobelins  1  I  had  not,  but  I 
anticipated  having  that  pleasure  soon. 

""  'Long  as  I  have  lived  in  Paris,  I  haA^e  never  yet  been 
to  the  Gobelins  ! '  says  Madam  Waldoborough.  '  Mademoi- 
selle' (that  was  Arachne)  'm  accuse  toujour s  d' avoir  tort,  et 
me  dit  que  je  dois  y  aller,  nest  ce pas,  Mademoiselle  ? ' 


78  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

"  '  Certainement  !  '  says  Mademoiselle,  emphatically  ;  and 
in  return  for  Madam's  ill-spoken  French,  she  added  in 
English,  of  even  worse  quality,  that  the  Gobelins'  manu- 
facture of  tapisserie  and  carpet,  was  the  place  the  moz 
curieuze  and  interressante  which  one  could  go  see  in  Paris. 

"  '  C'est  ce  qiCelle  dit  toujour s,'  says  the  Waldoborough. 
*  But  I  make  great  allowances  for  her  opinion,  since  she  is 
an  enthusiast  with  regard  to  everything  that  pertains  to 
weaving.' 

"  '  Very  natural  that  she  should  be,  being  a  Spider,'  I 
thought,  but  did  not  say  so. 

"  '  However,'  Madam  continued,  '  I  should  like  extremely 
well  to  go  there,  if  I  could  ever  get  the  time.  Quand 
aurai-Je  le  terns,  Mademoiselle  ?  ' 

"  '  I  sink  zis  day  is  more  time  zan  you  have  anozer 
day,  Madame,'  says  the  Spider. 

"  '  Would  you  like  to  go  1 '  says  Madam  ;  and  as  she  sug- 
gested ordering  the  carriage  for  the  purpose,  of  course  I 
jumped  at  the  chance.  To  ride  in  that  carriage  !  with  the 
Waldoborough  herself!  wdth  the  driver  before  and  the 
footman  behind,  in  livery  !     Oh  ! 

"  I  was  abandoned  to  intoxicating  dreams  of  ambition, 
whilst  Madam  went  to  prepare  herself,  and  Mademoiselle 
to  order  the  carriage.  It  was  not  long  before  I  heard  a 
vehicle  enter  the  court-yard,  turn,  and  stop  in  the  car- 
riage-way. I  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it  from  the  win- 
dow, but  saw  it  only  in  imagination,  —  that  barouche  of 
barouches,  which  is  Waldoborough's  !  I  imagined  myself 
seated  luxuriously  in  that  shell,  with  Madam  by  my  side, 
rolling  through  the  streets  of  Paris  in  even  greater  state 
than  I  had  rolled  through  London  with  my  Todworth 
cousin.  I  was  impatient  to  be  experiencing  the  new  sen- 
sation. The  moments  dragged  :  five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes 
at  least  elapsed,  and  all  the  while  the  carriage  and  I  were 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  79 

"waiting.  Then  appeared  —  who  do  you  suppose  '?  The 
Spider,  dressed  for  an  excursion.  '  So  she  is  going  too  ! ' 
thought  I,  not  very  well  pleased.  She  had  in  her  arras  — 
what  do  you  suppose  1  A  confounded  little  lapdog,  —  the 
spaniel  you  saw  just  now  with  his  nose  just  above  the 
crinoline. 

"  '  Monsieur,'  says  she,  '  I  desire  make  you  know  ze  King 
FrauQois.'  I  hate  lapdogs  ;  but,  in  order  to  be  civil,  I  of- 
fered to  pat  his  majesty  on  the  head.  That,  however,  did 
not  seem  to  be  court-etiquette  ;  and  I  got  snapped  at  by 
the  little  despot.  '  Our  compagnon  of  voyage,'  says  Mad- 
emoiselle, pacifying  him  with  caresses. 

"  '  So  he  is  going  too  1 '  thought  I,  —  so  unreasonable  as 
to  feel  a  little  dissatisfied ;  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  say  who 
should  or  who  should  not  ride  in  Madam  Waldoborough's 
carriage. 

"  Mademoiselle  sat  with  her  hat  on,  and  held  the  pup ; 
and  I  sat  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  and  held  my  peace ; 
and  she  talked  bad  English  to  me,  and  good  French  to  the 
dog,  for,  maybe,  ten  minutes  longer,  when  the  Waldo- 
borough  swept  in,  arrayed  for  the  occasion,  and  said, 
'  Maintenant  nous  allons'  That  was  the  signal  for  descend- 
ing :  as  we  did  so,  Madam  casually  remarked,  that  some- 
thing was  the  matter  with  one  of  the  Waldoborough  horses, 
but  that  she  had  not  thought  it  worth  the  while  to  give 
up  our  visit  to  the  Gobelins  on  that  account,  since  a  coupe 
would  answer  our  purpose  ;  —  and  the  co?//:»es  in  that  quar- 
ter were  really  very  respectable  ! 

"  This  considerate  remark  was  as  a  feather-bed  to  break 
the  frightful  fall  before  me.  You  think  I  tumbled  down 
the  Waldoborough  stairs  %  Worse  than  that :  I  dropped 
headlong,  precipitately,  from  the  heights  of  fairy  dreams 
to  low  actuality  ;  all  the  way  down,  down,  down,  from  the 
Waldoborough  barouche  to  a  hired  coach,  a  voiture  de  re- 
mise, that  stood  in  its  place  at  the  door ! 


80  MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

*  "Mademoiselle  suggested  that  it  would  be  quite  as  well 
to  go  in  a  coupe,'  says  Madam  Waldoborough,  as  she  got 
in. 

"  '  0  certainly,'  I  replied,  with  preternatural  cheerful- 
ness. 

"  It  was  a  vehicle  with  two  horses  and  seats  for  four ; 
one  driver  in  a  red  face,  —  the  common  livery  of  your 
Paris  hackman ;  but  no  footman,  no  footman,  no  foot- 
man !  "  Herbert  repeated,  with  a  groan.  "  Not  so  much 
as  a  little  tiger  clinging  to  the  straps  behind  !  I  comforted 
myself,  however,  with  the  reflection  that  beggars  must  not 
be  choosers ;  that,  if  I  rode  with  Madam,  I  must  accept 
her  style  of  turn-out ;  and  that  if  I  was  a  good  boy,  and 
went  in  the  coupe  this  time,  I  might  go  in  the  barouche 
the  next. 

"  Madam  occupied  the  back  seat  —  the  seat  of  honor  in 
a  coach  —  with  whom,  do  you  suppose  1  Me  1  No,  sir  ! 
With  the  Spider  %  Not  even  with  the  Spider  !  With  the 
lapdog,  sir  !  And  I  was  forced  to  content  myself  with 
a  seat  by  Arachne's  side,  facing  the  royal  pair. 

"  '  Aux  Gobelins,''  says  Madam  Waldoborough,  to  the 
driver  ;  '  mais  allez  par  V Hotel  de  Ville,  le  pont  Louis  Phi- 
lippe, et  VEglise  de  Notre  Dame,  —  nest-ce  pas  ? '  referring 
the  question  to  me. 

"  I  said,  *  As  you  please.'  And  the  ^ed-faced  driver  said, 
'  Bien,  Madame  !  '  as  he  shut  us  into  the  coach.  And  off 
we  went  by  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  the  Pont  Louis  Philippe, 
and  Notre  Dame,  accordingly. 

"  We  stopped  a  few  minutes  to  look  at  the  Cathedial 
front ;  then  rattled  on,  up  the  Quai  and  across  the  Pont 
de  FArcheveche.  and  through  the  crooked,  countless  streets 
until  we  reached  the  Gobelins ;  and  I  must  confess  I  did 
not  yet  experience  any  of  the  sublime  emotions  I  had 
counted  upon  in  riding  with  the  distinguished  Madam 
Waldoborough. 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  81 

"  You  have  been  to  the  Gobelins  1  If  you  have  n't,  you 
must  go  there,  —  not  with  two  ladies  and  a  lapdog,  as  I 
did,  but  independently,  and  you  will  find  the  visit  well 
worth  the  trouble.  The  establishment  derives  its  name 
from  an  obscure  wool-dyer  of  the  fifteenth  century,  Jean 
Gobelin,  whose  little  workshop  has  grown  to  be  one  of  the 
most  extensive  and  magnificent  carpet  and  tapestry  manu- 
factories in  the  world. 

"  We  found  liveried  attendants  stationed  at  every  door 
and  turning-point,  to  direct  the  crowds  of  visitors  and  to 
keep  out  dogs.  No  dog  could  be  admitted  except  in  arms. 
I  suggested  that  King  Francis  should  be  left  in  the  coach  ; 
upon  which  Madam  Waldoborough  asked,  reproachfully, 
*  Could  I  be  so  cruel  1 '  and  the  Spider  looked  at  me  as 
if  I  had  been  an  American  savage.  To  atone  for  my 
inhumanity,  I  offered  to  carry  the  cur ;  he  was  put  into 
my  arms  at  once  ;  and  so  it  happened  that  I  walked 
through  that  wonderful  series  of  rooms,  hung  with  tapes- 
tries of  the  richest  description,  of  the  times  of  Francis 
I.,  Louis  XIV.,  and  so  forth,  w4th  a  detested  lapdog  in 
my  hands.  However,  I  showed  my  heroism  by  enduring 
my  fate  without  a  murmur,  and  quoting  Tennyson  for 
the  gratification  of  Madam  Waldoborough,  who  was  re- 
minded of  the  corridors  of  '  The  Palace  of  Art.' 

*  Some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puffed  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 
His  wreathe'd  bugle-horn.' 

And  so  forth,  and  so  on.  I  continued  my  citations  in 
order  to  keep  Madam's  mouth  shut ;  for  she  annoyed  me 
exceedingly  by  telling  everybody  she  had  occasion  to 
speak  with  who  she  was. 

"  '  Je  suis  Madame  Waldohorovgh  ;  et  je  desire  savoir ' 
this   thing,    or   that, —  whatever    she   wished    to    inquire 

4*  F 


82  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

about ;  as  if  all  the  world  knew  of  her  fame,  and  she  had 
only  to  state,  '  I  am  that  distinguished  personage,'  in 
order  to  command  the  utmost  deference  and  respect. 

"  From  the  show-rooms  we  passed  on  to  the  work- 
rooms, where  we  found  the  patient  weavers  sitting  or 
standing  at  the  back  side  of  their  pieces,  with  their  bas- 
kets of  many-colored  spools  at  their  sides,  and  the  paint- 
ings they  were  copying  behind  them,  slowly  building  up 
their  imitative  fabrics,  loop  after  loop,  and  stitch  after 
stitch,  by  hand.  Madam  told  the  workmen  who  she  was, 
and  learned  that  one  had  been  at  work  six  months  on 
his  picture ;  it  was  a  female  figure  kneeling  to  a  colossal 
pair  of  legs,  destined  to  support  a  warrior,  whose  upper 
proportions  waited  to  be  drawn  out  of  the  spool-baskets. 
Another  had  been  a  year  at  work  on  a  headless  Virgin 
with  a  babe  in  her  arms,  finished  only  to  the  eyes.  Some- 
times ten,  or  even  twenty  years,  are  expended  by  one  man 
upon  a  single  piece  of  tapestry ;  but  the  patience  of  the 
workmen  is  not  more  wonderful  than  the  art  with  which 
they  select  and  blend  their  colors,  passing  from  the  softest 
to  the  most  brilliant  shades,  without  fault,  as  the  work 
they  are  copying  requires. 

"  From  the  tapestry-weaving  we  passed  on  to  the  carpet- 
weaving  rooms,  where  the  workmen  have  the  right  side 
of  their  fibric  before  them,  and  the  designs  to  be  copied 
over  their  heads.  Some  of  the  patterns  were  of  the  most 
gorgeous  description,  — vines,  scrolls,  flowers,  birds,  lions, 
men ;  and  the  way  they  passed  from  the  reflecting  brain 
through  the  fingers  of  the  weaver  into  the  woollen  texture 
was  marvellous  to  behold.  I  could  have  spent  some  hours 
in  the  establishment  pleasantly  enough,  w.'i^ching  the  op- 
eratives, but  for  that  terrible  anno^-ance,  the  dog  in  my 
arms.  I  could  not  put  him  down,  and  I  could  not  ask 
the  ladies  to  take  hira.     The  Spider  was  in  her  element ; 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  83 

she  forgot  everything  but  the  toil  of  her  fellow-spiders, 
and  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  her  away  from  any 
piece  she  once  became  interested  in.  Madam,  busy  in 
telling  who  she  was  and  asking  questions,  gave  me  little 
attention ;  so  that  I  found  myself  more  in  the  position 
of  a  lackey  than  a  companion.  I  had  regretted  that  her 
footman  did  not  accompany  us ;  but  what  need  was  there 
of  a  footman  as  long  as  she  had  me  1 

"  In  half  an  hour  I  had  become  weary  of  the  lapdog  and 
the  Gobelins,  and  wished  to  get  away.  But  no,  —  Madam 
must  tell  more  people  who  she  was,  and  make  further  in- 
quiries ;  and  as  for  Arachne,  I  believe  she  would  have  re- 
mained there  until  this  time.  Another  half-hour,  and  an- 
other, and  still  the  good  part  of  another,  exhausted  the 
strength  of  my  arms  and  the  endurance  of  my  soul,  until 
at  last  the  Waldoborough  said,  *  Uh  lien,  nous  avons  tout 
vu,  n^est-ce  pas  ?     Allo7is  done  ! '     And  we  allonged. 

*  "  We  found  our  coupe  waiting  for  us,  and  I  thrust  his 
majesty  King  Francis  into  it  rather  unceremoniously. 
Now  you  must  know  that  all  this  time  Madam  Waldo- 
borough  had  not  the  remotest  idea  but  that  she  was 
treating  me  with  all  due  civility.  She  is  one  of  your 
thoroughly  egotistical,  self-absorbed  women,  accustomed  to 
receiving  homage,  who  appear  to  consider  that  to  breathe 
in  their  presence  and  attend  upon  them  is  sufficient  honor 
and  happiness  for  anybody. 

"  '  Never  mind,'  thought  I,  '  she  '11  invite  me  to  dinner, 
and  maybe  I  shall  meet  an  ambassador ! ' 

•  "  Arrived  at  the  Hotel  Waldoborough,  accordingly,  I 
stepped  out  of  the  covpe,  and  helped  out  the  ladies  and 
the  lapdog,  and  was  going  in  with  them,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But  the  Spider  said,  'Do  not  give  yourself  ze 
pain,  Monsieur  ! '  and  relieved  me  of  King  Francis.  And 
Madam  said,  '  Shall  I  order  the  driver  to  be  paid  1  or  will 


84  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

you  retain  the  coiq^e  ?  You  will  want  it  to  take  you  home. 
Well,  good  day,'  —  offering  me  two  fingers  to  shake.  '  I 
am  very  happy  to  have  met  you  ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  see 
you  at  my  next  reception.  Thursday  evening,  remember  ; 
I  receive  Thursday  evenings.  Cocker,  vous  emporterez  Mon- 
sieur chez  lui,  comprenez  ?  ' 

"  '  Bien,  Madame  !  '  says  the  cocker. 

"  *  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  ! '  says  Arachne,  gayly,  tripping 
up  the  stairs  with  the  king  in  her  arms. 

"  I  was  stunned.  For  a  minute  I  did  not  know  very 
well  what  I  was  about ;  indeed,  I  should  have  done  very 
differently  if  I  had  had  my  wits  about  me.  I  stepped  back 
into  the  coupe,  —  weary,  disheartened,  hungry  ;  my  dinner 
hour  was  past  long  ago  ;  it  was  now  approaching  Madam's 
dinner  hour,  and  I  was  sent  away  fasting.  What  was 
worse,  the  coup)e  was  left  for  me  to  pay  for.  It  was  three 
hours  since  it  had  been  ordered ;  price,  two  francs  an 
hour  ;  total,  six  francs.  I  had  given  the  driver  my  ad- 
dress, and  we  were  clattering  away  towards  the  Rue  des 
Vieux  Augustins,  when  I  remembered,  with  a  sinking 
of  the  heart  I  trust  you  may  never  experience,  that  I  had 
not  six  francs  in  the  world,  —  at  least  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  —  thanks  to  my  Todworth  cousin ;  that  I  had, 
in  fact,  only  fifteen  paltry  sous  in  my  pocket ! 

"  Here  was  a  scrape  !  I  had  ridden  in  Madam  Waldo- 
borough's  carriage  with  a  vengeance  !  Six  francs  to  pay  ! 
and  how  was  I  ever  to  pay  it  ]  '  Cocker  1  cocker ! '  I 
cried  out,  despairingly,  '  attendez  ! ' 

"  The  cocker  stopped  promptly.  Struck  with  the  ap- 
palling thought  that  every  additional  rod  we  travelled 
involved  an  increase  of  expense,  my  first  impulse  was  to 
jump  out  and  dismiss  him.  But  then  came  the  more 
frightful  fancy,  that  it  was  not  possible  to  dismiss  him 
unless  I  could  pay  him  !     I  must  keep  him  with  me  until 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  85 

•I  could  devise  some  means  of  raising  the  six  francs,  which 
an  hour  later  would  be  eight  francs,  and  an  hour  later 
ten  francs,  and  so  forth.  Every  moment  that  I  delayed 
payment  swelled  the  debt,  like  a  ruinous  rate  of  interest, 
and  diminished  the  possibility  of  ever  paying  him  at  all. 
And  of  course  I  could  not  keep  him  with  me  forever,  — 
go  about  the  world  henceforth  in  a  hired  coach,  with  a 
driver  and  span  of  horses  impossible  to  get  rid  of. 

"  *  Que  veut  Jfonsieiir  .?'  says  the  driver,  looking  over  at 
me  with  his  red  face,  and  waiting  for  my  orders. 

"  That  recalled  me  from  my  hideous  revery.  I  knew  I 
might  as  well  be  travelling  as  standing  still,  since  he  was 
to  be  paid  by  the  hour ;  so  I  said,  '  Drive  on,  drive 
faster  ! ' 

"  I  had  one  hope,  —  that  on  reaching  my  lodgings  I 
might  prevail  upon  the  concierge  to  pay  for  the  coach. 
I  stepped  out  with  alacrity,  said  gayly  to  my  coachman, 
'  Combien  est-ce  que  je  vous  dois  ? '  and  put  my  hand  in 
among  my  fifteen  sous  with  an  air  of  confidence. 

"The  driver  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said,  with  busi- 
ness-like exactness,  '  Six  francs  vingt-cinq  centimes,  Mon- 
sieur.'^  Vingt-cinq  centimes  /  My  debt  had  increased  five 
cents  whilst  I  had  been  thinking  about  it  !  ^  Avec  quelqne- 
chose  pour  la  hoisson,'  he  added  w^ith  a  persuasive  smile. 
With  a  trifle  besides  for  drink-money,  —  for  that  every 
French  driver  expects. 

"  Then  I  appeared  to  discover,  to  my  surprise,  that  I 
had  not  the  change  ;  so  I  cried  out  to  the  old  woman  in 
the  porter's  lodge,  *  Give  this  man  five  francs  for  me,  will 
your 

"  '  Five  francs  ! '  echoed  the  ogress  with  astonishment : 
*  Monsieur,  je  nai  2)as  le  sou  !  ' 

"  I  might  have  known  it ;  of  course  she  would  n't  have 
a  sou  for  a  poor  devil  like  me. 


86  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGHS   CARRIAGE. 

"  I  then  proposed  to  call  at  the  driver's  stand  and  pay 
him  in  a  day  or  two,  if  he  would  trust  me.  He  smiled 
and  shook  his  head. 

" '  Very  well,'  said  I,  stepping  back  into  the  coach, 
*  drive  to  number  five,  CM  Odiot.'  I  had  an  acquaintance 
there,  of  Avhom  I  thought  I  might  possibly  borrow.  The 
coachman  drove  away  cheerfully,  seeming  to  be  perfectly 
well  satisfied  with  the  state  of  things ;  he  was  master  of 
the  situation,  —  he  was  having  employment,  his  pay  was 
going  on,  and  he  could  hold  me  in  pledge  for  the  money. 
We  reached  the  Cite  Odiot :  I  ran  in  at  number  five,  and 
up  stairs  to  my  friend's  room.  It  was  locked;  he  was 
away  from  home. 

"  I  had  but  one  other  acquaintance  in  Paris  on  whom  I 
could  venture  to  call  for  a  loan  of  a  few  francs ;  and  he 
lived  far  away,  across  the  Seine,  in  the  Rue  Racine.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  alternative ;  so  away  we  posted,  carrying 
my  ever-increasing  debt,  dragging  at  each  remove  a  length- 
ening chain.  We  reached  the  Rue  Racine ;  I  found  my 
friend  ;  I  wrung  his  hand.  *  For  Heaven's  sake,'  said  I, 
'  help  me  to  get  rid  of  this  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  —  this 
elephant  won  in  a  rafile  ! ' 

"  I  explained.  He  laughed.  '  What  a  funny  adven- 
ture ! '  says  he.  '  And  how  curious  that  at  this  time,  of 
all  others,  I  have  n't  ten  sous  in  the  world  !  But  I  '11  tell 
you  what  I  can  do,'  says  he. 

"  '  For  mercy's  sake,  what  1 ' 

" '  I  can  get  you  out  of  the  building  by  a  private  pas- 
sage, take  you  through  into  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  and  let 
you  escape.  Your  coachman  will  remain  waiting  for  you 
at  the  door  until  you  have  traversed  half  Paris.  That 
will  be  a  capital  point  to  the  joke,  —  a  splendid  JiJtale 
for  your  little  comedy  ! ' 

"  I  confess  to  you  that,  perplexed  and  desperate  as  I 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  87 

was,  I  felt  for  an  instant  tempted  to  accept  this  infomous 
suggestion.  Not  that  I  would  willingly  have  wronged  the 
coachman ;  but  since  there  was  no  hope  of  doing  him 
justice,  why  not  do  the  best  thing  for  myself?  If  I  could 
not  save  my  honor,  I  might  at  least  save  my  person. 
And  I  own  that  the  picture  of  him  which  presented  itself 
to  my  mind,  waiting  at  the  door  so  complacently,  so 
stolidly,  intent  only  on  sticking  by  me  at  the  rate  of  two 
francs  an  hour  until  paid  off,  —  without  feeHng  a  shadow 
of  sympathy  for  my  distress,  but  secretly  laughing  at  it, 
doubtless,  —  that  provoked  me ;  and  I  was  pleased  to 
think  of  him  waiting  there  still,  after  I  should  have 
escaped,  until  at  last  his  beaming  red  face  would  suddenly 
grow  purple  with  wrath,  and  his  placidity  change  to  con- 
sternation, on  discovering  that  he  liAd  been  outwitted. 
But  I  knew  too  well  what  he  would  do.  He  would  report 
me  to  the  police  !  Worse  than  that,  he  would  report  me 
to  Madam  Waldoborough  ! 

"  Already  I  fancied  him,  with  his  w^hip  under  his  arm, 
smilingly  taking  off  his  hat,  and  extending  his  hand  to  the 
amazed  and  indignant  lady,  with  a  polite  request  that  she 
would  pay  for  that  coiq^e  !  What  cov2:>e  ?  And  he  would 
tell  his  story,  and  the  Goddess  would  be  thunderstruck  ; 
and  the  eyes  of  the  Spider  would  sparkle  w^ickedly;  and  I 
should  be  disgraced  forever  ! 

''  Then  I  could  see  the  Parisian  detectives  —  the  best 
in  the  world  —  going  to  take  down  from  the  lady's  lips  a 
minute  description  of  the  adventurer,  the  swindler,  who 
had  imposed  upon  them,  and  attempted  to  cheat  a  poor 
hack-driver  out  of  his  hard-earned  wages !  Then  would 
appear  the  reports  in  the  newspapers,  — ■  how  a  well-dressed 
young  man,  an  American,  Monsieur  X.,  (or  perhaps  my 
name  would  be  given,)  had  been  the  means  of  enlivening 
the  fashionable  circles  of  Paris  with  a  choice  bit  of  scandal, 


88  MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S  CARRIAGE. 

by  inviting  a  very  distinguished  lady,  also  an  American 
(whose  Thursday-evening  receptions  are  attended  by  some 
of  the  most  illustrious  French  and  foreign  residents  in  the 
metropolis),  to  accompany  him  on  a  tour  of  inspection  to 
the  Gobelins,  and  had  afterwards  been  guilty  of  the  unex- 
ampled baseness  of  leaving  the  coupe  he  had  employed 
standing,  unpaid,  at  the  door  of  a  certain  house  in  the 
Rue  Racine,  whilst  he  escaped  by  a  private  passage  into 
the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  and  so  forth. 

"  '  No,'  said  I ;  "t  is  impossible  !  If  you  can't  help  me 
to  the  money,  I  must  try  —  but  where,  how  can  I  hope  to 
raise  eight  francs,  (for  it  is  four  hours  by  this  time,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  drink-money  !)  —  how  can  I  ever  hope  to 
raise  that  sum  in  Paris  1 ' 

" '  You  can  pawn  your  watch,'  says  my  false  friend,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  and  smiling,  as  if  he  really  enjoyed  the 
comicality  of  the  thing. 

"  But  I  had  already  eaten  my  watch,  as  the  French  say  : 
it  had  been  a  week  at  the  Mont  de  Piete. 

"'Your  coat  then,'  says  my  counsellor,  with  good-na- 
tured unconcern. 

" '  And  go  in  my  shirt-sleeves  ? '  for  I  had  placed  my 
trunk  and  its  contents  in  the  charge  of  my  landlord,  as 
security  for  the  payment  of  my  rent. 

"  '  In  that  case,  I  don't  see  what  you  will  do,  unless  you 
take  my  original  advice,  and  dodge  the  fellow.' 

"  I  left  my  fair-weather  acquaintance  in  disgust,  and 
went  off,  literally  staggering  under  the  load,  the  ever- 
increasing  load,  the  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  of  francs,  francs, 
francs,  —  despair,  despair,  despair. 

"  *  Eh  hien  'l '  says  the  driver,  interrogatively,  as  I  went 
out  to  him.  "  . 

"  I  ordered  him  to  drive  back  to  the  Cite  Odiot. 

" '  Bien  ! '  says  he,  polite  as  ever,  cheery  as  ever ;  and 


MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  89 

away  we  went  again,  back  across  the  Seine,  up  the  Champs 
Elysees,  into  the  Rue  de  I'Oratoire,  to  the  Cite,  —  my 
stomach  faint,  my  head  aching,  my  thoughts  whirHng,  and 
the  carriage  wheels  rattling,  clattering,  chattering  all  the 
way,  '  Two  francs  an  hour  and  drink-money  !  Two  francs 
an  hour  and  drink-money  ! ' 

"  Once  more  I  tried  my  luck  at  number  five,  and  was 
filled  with  exasperation  and  dismay  to  find  that  my  friend 
had  been  home,  and  gone  off  again  in  great  haste,  with  a 
portmanteau  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  had  he  gone  ?  Nobody  knew :  but  he  had 
given  his  key  to  the  house-servant,  saying  he  would  be 
absent  several  days. 

"  '  Fensez-vous  qicHl  est  alle  ct  Londres  ? '  I  hurriedly  in- 
quired. 

" '  Monsieur^  je  rCen  sais  rien^  was  the  calm,  decisive 
response. 

"  T  knew  he  often  went  to  London ;  and  now  my  only 
hope  was  to  catch  him  at  one  of  the  railway  stations. 
But  by  which  route  would  he  be  likely  to  go]  I  thought 
of  only  one,  that  by  way  of  Calais,  by  which  I  had  come, 
and  I  ordered  my  coachman  to  drive  with  all  speed  to  the 
Northern  Railway  Station.  He  looked  a  little  glum  at 
this,  and  his  '  Bien  ! '  sounded  a  good  deal  like  the  '  bang ' 
of  the  coach-door,  as  he  shut  it  rather  sharply  in  my  face. 

"  Again  we  were  off,  my  head  hotter  than  ever,  my  feet 
like  ice,  and  the  coach-wheels  saying  vivaciously,  as  before, 
'  Two  francs  an  hour  and  drink-money  !  Two  francs  an 
honr  and  drink-money ! '  I  was  terribly  afraid  we  should 
be  too  late ;  but  on  arriving  at  the  station,  I  found  there 
was  no  train  at  all.  One  had  left  in  the  afternoon,  and 
another  would  leave  late  in  the  evening.  Then  I  happened 
to  think  there  were  other  routes  to  London,  by  the  way 
of  Dieppe  and  Havre.     My  friend  might  have  gone  by  one 


90  MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S  CARRIAGE. 

of  those !  Yes,  there  was  a  train  at  about  that  time,  my 
driver  somewhat  sullenly  informed  me, — for  he  was  fast 
losing  his  cheerfulness  :  perhaps  it  was  his  supper-time,  or 
perhaps  he  was  in  a  hurry  for  his  drink-money.  Did  he 
know  where  the  stations  were  1  Know  ?  of  course  he  did  ! 
There  was  but  one  terminus  for  both  routes ;  that  was  in 
the  Rue  St.  Lazare.  Could  he  reach  it  before  the  train 
started  1  Possibly ;  but  his  horses  were  jaded ;  they 
needed  feeding.  And  why  did  n't  I  tell  him  before  that  I 
washed  to  stop  there  1  for  we  had  come  through  the  Rue 
St.  Lazare,  and  actually  passed  the  railway  station  there, 
on  our  way  from  the  Cite  Odiot !  That  was  vexing  to 
think  of,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  so  back  we  flew  on 
our  course,  to  catch,  if  possible,  the  train,  and  my  friend, 
who  I  was  certain  was  going  in  it. 

"We  reached  the  Lazarus  Street  Station;  and  I,  all  in 
a  frenzy  of  apprehension,  rushed  in,  to  experience  one  of 
those  fearful  trials  of  temper  to  which  nervous  men  — 
especially  nervous  Americans  in  Paris  —  are  sometimes 
subject.  The  train  was  about  starting ;  but,  owing  to  the 
strict  regulations  which  are  everywhere  enforced  on  French 
railways,  I  could  not  even  force  myself  into  the  passenger- 
room, —  much  less  get  through  the  gate,  and  past  the 
guard,  to  the  platform  where  the  cars  were  standing. 
Nobody  could  enter  there  without  a  ticket.  My  friend 
was  going,  and  I  could  not  rush  in  and  catch  him,  and 
borrow  my  —  ten  francs,  I  suppose,  by  that  time,  because 
I  had  not  a  ticket,  nor  money  to  buy  a  ticket !  I  laugh 
now  at  the  image  of  myself,  as  I  must  have  appeared  then, 
—  frantically  explaining  what  I  could  of  the  circumstances 
to  any  of  the  officials  who  would  hear  me,  —  pouring  forth 
torrents  of  broken  and  hardly  intelligible  French,  now 
shrieking  to  make  myself  understood,  and  now  groaning 
wi  th  despair,  —  questioning,  cursing,  imploring,  —  and  re- 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  91 

ceiving  the  invariable,  the  inexorable  reply,  always  polite, 
but  always  firm,  — 

" '  On  ne  passe  pas.  Monsieur.' 

"  Absolutely  no  admittance  !  And  while  I  was  convuls- 
ing myself  in  vain,  the  train  started !  It  was  off,  —  my 
friend  was  gone,  and  I  was  ruined  forever ! 

"  When  the  worst  has  happened,  and  we  feel  that  it  is 
so,  and  our  own  efforts  are  no  longer  of  any  avail,  then  we 
become  calm ;  the  heart  accepts  the  fate  it  knows  to  be 
inevitable.  The  bankrupt,  after  all  his  anxious  nights  and 
terrible  days  of  struggle,  is  almost  happy  at  last,  when  all 
is  over.  Even  the  convict  sleeps  soundly  on  the  night 
preceding  his  execution.  Just  so  I  recovered  my  self-pos- 
session and  equanimity  after  the  train  had  departed. 

"  I  w^ent  back  to  my  hackman.  His  serenity  had  van- 
ished as  mine  had  arrived;  and  the  fury  that  possessed 
me  seemed  to  pass  over  and  take  up  its  abode  with  him. 

"  '  Will  you  pay  me '? '    he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"  '  My  friend,'  said  I,  'it  is  impossible.'  And  I  repeated 
my  proposition  to  call  and  settle  with  him  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  'And  you  will  not  pay  me  now]'  he  vociferated. 

"  '  My  friend,  I  cannot.' 

" '  Then  I  know  what  I  will  do  ! '  turning  away  with  a 
gesture  of  rage. 

"  '  I  have  done  what  I  could,  now  you  shall  try  what 
you  can,'  I  answered,  mildly. 

"'JEcoutez  done!'  he  hissed,  turning  once  more  ux)on 
me.  '  I  go  to  Madam.  I  demand  my  pay  of  her.  What 
do  you  say  to  that  1 ' 

"  A  few  minutes  before  I  should  have  been  overwhelmed 
by  the  suggestion.  I  was  not  pleased  with  it  now.  No 
man  who  has  enjoyed  the  society  of  ladies,  and  imagined 
that  he  appeared  well  in  their  presence,  fancies  the  idea 
of  being  utterly  shamed  and  humiliated  in  their  eyes.     I 


92  MADAM  WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

ought  to  have  had  the  courage  to  say  to  Madam  Waldo- 
boroua'h,  when  she  had  the  coolness  to  send  me  off  with 
the  coupe,  instead  of  my  dinner :  *  Excuse  me,  Madam,  I 
have  not  the  money  to  pay  this  man  ! '  It  would  have 
been  bitter,  that  confession ;  but  better  one  pill  at  the 
beginning  of  a  malady  than  a  whole  boxful  later.  Better 
truth,  anyhow,  though  it  kill  you,  than  a  precarious  exist- 
ence on  false  appearances.  I  had,  by  my  own  folly,  placed 
myself  in  an  embarrassing  and  ludicrous  position ;  and  I 
must  take  the  consequences. 

it  (  Very  well,'  said  I,  '  if  you  are  absolutely  bent  on  hav- 
ing your  money  to-night,  I  suppose  that  is  the  best  thing 
you  can  do.  But  say  to  Madam  that  I  expect  my  uncle 
by  the  next  steamer ;  that  I  wished  you  to  wait  till  his 
arrival  for  your  pay ;  and  that  you  not  only  refused,  but 
put  me  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  It  is  nothing  extraor- 
dinary,' I  continued,  'for  gay  young  men,  Americans,  to 
be  without  money  for  a  few  days  in  Paris,  expecting  re- 
mittances from  home ;  and  you  fellows  ought  to  be  more 
accommodating. ' 

"'True!  true!'  says  the  driver,  turning  again  to  go. 
'But  I  must  have  my  pay  all  the  same.  I  shall  tell 
Madam  what  you  say.' 

"  He  was  going.  And  now  happened  one  of  those  won- 
derful things  which  sometimes  occur  in  real  life,  but  which, 
in  novels,  we  pronounce  improbable.  Whilst  we  were 
speaking  a  train  arrived ;  and  I  noticed  a  little  withered 
old  man,  —  a  little  smirking  mummy  of  a  man,  —  with  a 
face  all  wrinkles  and  smiles,  coming  out  of  the  building 
wdth  his  coat  on  his  arm.  I  noticed  him,  because  he  was 
so  ancient  and  dried  up,  and  yet  so  happy,  whilst  I  was  so 
young  and  fresh,  and  yet  so  miserable.  And  I  was  won- 
dering at  his  self-satisfaction,  when  I  saw  —  what  think 
you  1  —  something  fall  to  the  ground  from  the  waist-pocket 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  93 

of  the  coat  he  carried  on  his  arm  !  It  was  —  will  you 
believe  if?  —  a  pocket-book  !  —  a  fat  pocket-book,  a  re- 
spectable, well-worn  pocket-book  !  —  the  pocket-book  of  a 
millionuaire,  by  Jove  !  I  pounced  upon  it.  He  was  pass- 
ing on  when  I  ran  after  him,  politely  called-  his  attention, 
and  surprised  him  with  a  presentation  of  what  he  supposed 
was  all  the  time  conveyed  safely  in  his  coat. 

"  '  Is  it  possible  ! '  said  he  in  very  poor  French,  which 
betrayed  him  to  be  a  foreigner  like  myself  'You  are  very 
kind,  very  obliging,  very  obliging  indeed  ! ' 

"  If  thanks  and  smiles  would  have  answered  my  purpose, 
I  had  them  in  profusion.  He  looked  to  see  that  the 
pocket-book  had  not  been  opened,  and  thanked  me  again 
and  again.  He  seemed  very  anxious  to  do  the  polite 
thing,  yet  still  more  anxious  to  be  passing  on.  But  I 
would  not  let  him  pass  on ;  I  held  him  with  my  glittering 
eye. 

'"  Ah ! '  said  he,  '  perhaps  you  won't  feel  yourself 
injured  by  the  offer,'  —  for  he  saw  that  I  was  well  dressed, 
and  probably  hesitated  on  that  account  to  reward  me,  — 
'perhaps  you  will  take  something  for  your  honesty,  for 
your  trouble.'  And  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he 
took  it  out  again,  with  the  palm  covered  with  glittering 
gold  pieces. 

"  '  Sir,'  said  I,  '  I  am  ashamed  to  accept  anything  for  so 
trifling  a  service  ;  but  I  owe  this  man  here,  —  how  much 
is  it  now  1 ' 

"'Ten  francs  and  a  half,'  says  the  driver,  whom  I  had 
stopped  just  in  time. 

"  '  Ten  francs  and  a  half,'  I  repeated. 

"  ' Mais  n'ouhliez  jms  la  hoisson'  he  added,  his  persuasive 
smile  returning. 

"  '  With  something  for  his  dram,'  I  continued  :  '  which 
if  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  pay  him,  and  at  the  same 


94  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

time  give  me  your  address,  I  will  see  that  the  money  is 
returned  to  you  without  fail  in  a  day  or  two.' 

"  The  smiling  little  man  paid  the  money  on  the  spot ; 
saying  it  was  of  no  consequence,  and  neglecting  to  give  me 
his  address.  And  he  went  his  way  well  satisfied,  and  the 
driver  went  his,  also  well  satisfied ;  and  I  w^ent  mine, 
infinitely  better  satisfied,  I  imagine,  than  either  of  them. 

*'Well,  I  had  got  rid  of  Madam  Waldoborough's  car- 
riage, and  learned  a  lesson  which,  I  think,  will  last  me  the 
rest  of  my  life.  But  I  must  haste  and  tell  you  the  curious 
denouement  of  the  affair. 

^  was  n't  so  anxious  to  cultivate  Madam's  acquaintance 
after  riding  in  her  carriage,  you  may  well  believe.  For 
months  I  did  n't  see  her.  At  last  my  Todworth  cousin 
and  her  yellow-complexioned  husband  came  to  town,  and  I 
went  with  my  uncle  to  call  upon  them  at  Meurice's  Hotel. 
They  were  delighted  to  see  me,  and  fondly  pressed  me  to 
come  and  take  a  room  adjoining  their  suite,  as  I  did  at 
Cox's ;  whereat  I  smiled. 

"A  card  was  brought  in,  and  my  cousin  directed  that 
the  visitor  should  be  admitted.  There  was  a  rustle,  —  a 
volume  of  flounces  came  sweeping  in,  —  a  well-remembered 
voice  cried,  '  My  dear  Louise  ! '  —  and  my  Todworth  cousin 
was  clasped  in  the  buxom  embrace  of  Madam  Waldo- 
borough. 

"  But  what  did  I  behold  1  Following  in  Madam's  wake, 
like  a  skiff"  towed  at  the  stern  of  a  rushing  side-wheel 
steamer,  a  dapper  little  old  man,  a  withered  little  old  man, 
a  gayly  smiling  little  old  man,  whose  countenance  was 
somehow  strangely  familiar  to  me.  I  considered  him  a 
moment,  and  the  scene  in  the  Rue  St.  Lazare,  with 
the  couxje  driver  and  the  man  with  the  pocket-book, 
flashed  across  my  mind.  This  was  the  man  !  I  remem- 
bered him  w^ell ;  but  he  had  evidently  forgotten  me. 


MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE.  95 

"  Madam  released  Louise  from  her  divine  large  arms,  and 
greeted  the  yellow-complexioned  one.  Then  she  was  in- 
troduced to  my  uncle.  Then  the  bride  said,  '  You,  know 
my  cousin  Herbert,  I  believe  1 ' 

"  '  Ah,  yes ! '  says  the  Waldoborough,  who  had  glanced 
at  me  curiously,  but  doubtfully,  *  I  recognize  him  now  ! ' 
giving  me  a  smile  and  two  fingers.  '  I  thought  I  had  seen 
him  somewhere.  You  have  been  to  one  or  two  of  my  re- 
ceptions, have  n't  you  1 ' 

"  '  I  have  not  yet  had  that  pleasure,'  said  I. 

" '  Ah,  I  remember  now !  You  called  one  morning, 
did  n't  you  1  And  we  went  somewhere  together,  —  where 
did  we  go  ]  —  or  was  it  some  other  gentleman  ? ' 

"  I  said  I  thought  it  must  have  been  some  other  gentle- 
man ;  for  indeed  I  could  hardly  believe  now  that  I  was 
that  fool. 

"'Very  likely,'  said  she;  'for  I  see  so  many, — my 
receptions,  you  know,  Louise,  are  always  so  crowded ! 
But,  dear  me,  what  am  I  thinking  of?  Where  are  you, 
my  dear  1 '  and  the  steamer  brought  the  skiff  alongside. 

" '  Louise,  and  gentlemen,'  then  said  my  lady,  wdth  a 
magnificent  courtesy,  the  veiy  wind  of  which  I  feared 
would  blow  him  away,  —  but  he  advanced  triumphantly, 
bowing  and  smiling  extravagantly,  —  '  allow  me  the  happi- 
ness of  presenting  to  you  Mr.  John  Waldoborough,  my 
husband.' 

"  How  I  refrained  from  shrieking  and  throwing  myself 
on  the  floor,  I  never  well  knew;  for  I  declare  to  you,  I 
was  never  so  caught  by  surprise  and  tickled  through  and 
through  by  any  denouement  or  situation,  in  or  off  the 
stage !  To  think  that  pigmy,  that  wart,  that  little 
grimacing  monkey  of  a  man,  parchment-faced,  antique,  — 
a  mere  money-bag  on  two  sticks,  —  should  be  the  husband 
of  the  great   and  glorious  Madam  Waldoborough  I     His 


96  MADAM   WALDOBOROUGH'S   CARRIAGE. 

wondrous  self-satisfaction  was  accounted  for.  Moreover,  I 
saw  that  Heaven's  justice  was  done;  Madam's  husband 
had  paid  for  Madam's  carriage  ! " 

Here  Herbert  concluded  his  story.  And  it  was  time ; 
for  the  day  had  closed,  as  we  walked  up  and  down,  and 
the  sudden  November  night  had  come  on.  Gas-light  had 
replaced  the  light  of  the  sun  throughout  the  streets  of  the 
city.  The  brilliant  cressets  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
flamed  like  a  constellation ;  and  the  Avenue  des  Champs 
Elysees,  with  its  rows  of  lamps,  and  the  throngs  of  car- 
riages, each  bearing  now  its  lighted  lantern,  moving  along 
that'^far-extending  slope,  looked  like  a  new  Milky  Way, 
fenced  with  lustrous  stars,  and  swarming  with  meteoric 
fire-flies. 


rESSENDEIfr'S. 


THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    AUTUMN". 

"  "T^LEASE,  ma'am,  I  want  to  come  in  out  of  the  rain," 
J^     said  the  dripping  figure  at  the  door. 

''And  who  are  you,  sirl"  demanded  the  lady,  aston- 
ished ;  for  the  bell  had  been  rung  familiarly,  and,  thinking 
her  son  had  come  home,  she  had  hastened  to  let  him  in, 
but  had  met  instead  (at  the  front  door  of  her  fine  house  !) 
this  wretch. 

"  I  'm  Fessenden's  fool,  please,  ma'am,"  replied  the  son 
—  not  of  this  happy  mother,  thank  Heaven  !  not  of  this 
proud,  elegant  lady,  0  no  !  —  but  of  some  no  less  human- 
hearted  mother,  I  suppose,  who  had  likewise  loved  her 
boy,  perhaps  all  the  more  fondly  for  his  infirmity,  —  who 
had  hugged  him  to  her  bosom  so  many,  many  times,  with 
wild  and  sorrowful  love,  —  and  who,  be  sure,  would  not 
have  kept  him  standing  there,  ragged  and  shivering,  in 
the  rain. 

"  Fessenden's  fool  1 "  cries  the  lady.  "  What 's  your 
name  ] " 

"  Please,  ma'am,  that  's  my  name."  Meekly  spoken, 
with  an  earnest,  staring  face.      "  Do  you  want  me  1, " 

"No;  we  don't  want  a  boy  with  such  a  name  as 
that ! " 

And  the  lady  scowls,  and  shakes  her  head,  and  half 
5  O 


98  FESSENDEN'S. 

closes  the  forbidding  door,  —  not  thinking  of  that  other 
mother's  heart,  —  never  dreaming  that  such  a  gaunt  and 
pallid  wight  ever  had  a  mother  at  all.  For  the  idea  that 
those  long,  lean  hands,  reaching  far  out  of  the  short  and 
split  coat-sleeves,  had  been  a  baby's  pure,  soft  hands  once, 
and  had  pressed  the  white  maternal  breasts,  and  had 
played  with  the  kisses  of  the  fond  maternal  lips,  —  it  was 
scarcely  conceivable;  and  a  delicate-minded  matron,  like 
Mrs.  Gingerford,  may  well  be  excused  for  not  entertaining 
any  such  distressing  fancy. 

"Wal !    I  '11  go  !  "     And  the  youth  turned  away. 

She  could  not  shut  the  door.  There  was  something  in 
the  unresentful,  sad  face,  pale  cheeks,  and  large  eyes,  that 
fascinated  her ;  something  about  the  tattered  clothes,  thin, 
wet  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  and  ravelled  straw  hat-brim, 
fantastic  and  pitiful.  And  as  he  walked  wearily  away, 
and  she  saw  the  night  closing  in  bleak  and  dark,  and  felt 
the  cold  dash  of  the  rain  blown  against  her  own  cheek,  she 
concluded  to  take  pity  on  him.  For  she  was  by  no  means 
a  hard-hearted  woman;  and  though  her  house  was  alto- 
gether too  good  for  poor  folks,  and  she  really  did  n't  know 
what  she  should  do  with  him,  it  seemed  too  bad  to  send 
him  away  shelterless,  that  stormy  November  night.  Be- 
sides, her  husband  was  a  rising  politician,  -^  the  public- 
spirited  Judge  Gingerford,  you  know,  —  the  eloquent  phi- 
lanthropist and  reformer ;  —  and  to  have  it  said  that  his 
door  had  been  shut  against  a  perishing  stranger  might 
tarnish  his  reputation.  So,  as  I  remarked,  she  concluded 
to  have  compassion  on  the  boy,  and,  after  duly  weighing  the 
matter,  to  call  him  back.  And  she  called,  —  though,  as  I 
suspect,  not  very  loud.  Moreover,  the  wind  was  whistling 
through  the  leafless  shrubbery,  and  his  rags  were  flutter- 
ing, and  his  hat  was  flapping  about  his  ears,  and  the  rain 
was  pelting  him ;    and  just  then  the  Judge's  respectable 


FESSENDEN'S.  99 

dog  put  his  head  out  of  the  warm,  dry  kennel,  and  barked ; 
so  that  he  did  not  hear,  —  the  lady  believed. 

He  had  heard  very  well,  nevertheless.  Why  did  n't  he 
go  back,  then?  Maybe,  because  he  was  a  fool.  More 
likely,  because  he  was,  after  all,  human.  Within  that 
husk  of  rags,  under  all  that  dull  incumbrance  of  imper- 
fect physical  organs  that  cramped  and  stifled  it,  there 
dwelt  a  soul ;  and  the  soul  of  man  knows  its  own  worth, 
and  is  proud.  The  coarsest,  most  degraded  drudge  still 
harbors  in  his  wretched  house  of  clay  a  divine  guest. 
There  is  that  in  the  convict  and  slave  which  stirs  yet  at 
an  insult.  And  even  in  this  lank,  half-witted  lad,  the 
despised  and  outcast  of  years,  there  abode  a  sense  of 
inalienable  dignity,  —  an  immanent  instinct  that  he,  too, 
was  a  creature  of  God,  and  worthy  therefore  to  be  treated 
with  a  certain  tenderness  and  respect,  and  not  to  be 
roughly  repulsed.  This  was  strong  in  him  as  in  you. 
His  wisdom  was  little,  but  his  will  was  firm.  And  though 
the  house  was  cheerful  and  large,  and  had  room  and  com- 
fort enough  and  to  spare,  rather  than  enter  it,  after  he 
had  been  flatly  told  he  was  not  wanted,  he  would  lie  down 
in  the  cold,  wet  fields  and  die. 

"  Certainly  he  will  find  shelter  somewhere,"  thought  the 
Judge's  lady,  discharging  her  conscience  of  the  responsi- 
bility.     "  But  I  am  sorry  he  did  n't  hear." 

Was  she  very  sorry  1 

She  went  back  into  her  cosey,  fire-lighted  sewing-room, 
and  thought  no  more  of  the  beggar-boy.  And  the  watch- 
dog, having  barked  his  well-bred,  formal  bark,  without 
undue  heat,  —  like  a  dog  that  knew  the  world,  and  had 
acquired  the  tone  of  society,  —  stood  a  minute,  important, 
contemplating  the  drizzle  from  the  door  of  his  kennel,  out 
of  which  he  had  not  deigned  to  step,  then  stretched  him- 
self once  more  on  his  straw,  gave  a  sigh  of  repose,  and 


100  FESSENDEN'S. 

curled  himself  up,  with  his  nose  to  the  air,  in  an  attitude 
of  canine  enjoyment,  in  which  it  was  to  be  hoped  no 
inconsiderate  vagabond  would  again  disturb  him. 

As  for  Fessenden's  —  How.  shall  we  name  him  1  Some- 
how, it  goes  against  the  gi'ain  to  call  any  person  a  fool. 
Though  we  may  forget  the  Scriptural  warning,  still  charity 
remembers  that  he  is  our  brother.  Suppose,  therefore,  we 
stop  at  the  possessive  case,  and  call  him  simply  Fessen- 
den's 1 

As  for  Fessenden's,  then,  he  was  less  fortunate  than  the 
Judge's  mastiff.  He  had  no  dry  straw,  not  even  a  kennel 
to  crouch  in.  '  And  the  fields  were  uninviting ;  and  to  die 
was  not  so  pleasant.  The  veriest  wretch  alive  feels  a 
yearning  for  life,  and  few  are  so  foolish  as  not  to  prefer  a 
dry  skin  to  a  wet  one.  Even  Fessenden's  knew  enough  to 
go  in  when  it  rained,  —  if  he  only  could.  So,  with  the 
dismallest  prospect  before  him,  he  kept  on,  in  the  wind 
and  rain  of  that  bitter  November  night. 

And  now  the  wind  was  rising  to  a  tempest ;  and  the  rain 
was  turning  to  sleet;  and  November  was  fast  becoming 
December.  P'or  this  was  the  last  day  of  the  month,  — 
the  close  of  the  last  day  of  autumn,  as  we  divide  the  sea- 
sons :  autumn  was  flying  in  battle  before  the  fierce  onset  of 
winter.     It  was  the  close  of  the  week  also,  being  Saturday. 

Saturday  night !  what  a  sentiment  of  thankfulness  and 
repose  is  in  the  word !  Comfort  is  in  it ;  and  peace 
exhales  from  it  like  an  aroma.  Your  work  is  ended  ;  it  is 
the  hour  of  rest ;  the  sense  of  duty  done  sweetens  reflec- 
tion, and  weariness  subsides  into  soothing  content.  Once 
more  the  heart  grows  tenderly  appreciative  of  the  com- 
monest blessings.  That  you  have  a  roof  to  shelter  you, 
and  a  pillow  for  your  head,  and  love  and  light  and  supper, 
and  something  in  store  for  Sunday, — that  the  raving 
rain  is  excluded,  and  the  wolfish  wind  howls  in  vain,  — 


FESSENDEN'S.  101 

that  those  dearest  to  you  are  gathered  about  your  hearth, 
and  all  is  well,  —  it  is  enough  ;  the  full  soul  asks  no  more. 
But  this  particular  Saturday  evening  brought  no  such 
suffusion  of  bliss  to  Fessenden's,  —  if,  indeed,  any  ever 
did.  He  saw,  through  the  streaming,  misty  air,  the  happy 
homes  in  the  village  lighted  up  one  by  one  as  it  grew 
dark.  He  had  ghmpses,  through  warm  windows,  of  white 
supper-tables.  The  storm  made  sufficient  seclusion ;  there 
was  no  need  to  draw  the  curtains.  Servants  were  bring- 
ing in  the  tea-things.  Children  were  playing  about  the 
floors,  — laughing,  beautiful  children.  Behold  them,  shiv- 
ering beggar-boy  !  Lean  by  the  iron  rail,  wait  patiently 
in  the  rain,  and  look  in  upon  them  ;  it  is  worth  your  while. 
How  frolicsome  and  light-hearted  they  seem !  They  are 
never  cold,  and  seldom  very  hungry,  and  the  world  is  dry 
to  them,  and  comfortable.  And  they  all  have  beds,  — 
delicious  beds.  Mothers'  hands  tuck  them  in;  mothers' 
lips  teach  them  to  say  their  little  prayers,  and  kiss  them 
good  night.  Foolish  fellow  !  why  did  n't  you  be  one  of 
those  fortunate  children,  well  fed,  rosy,  and  bright,  instead 
of  a  starved  and  stupid  tatterdemalion  1  A  question 
which  shapes  itself  vaguely  in  his  dull,  aching  soul,  as  he 
stands  trembling  in  the  sleet,  with  only  a  few  transparent 
squares  of  glass  dividing  him  and  his  misery  from  them 
and  their  joy. 

Mighty  quest iom !  it  is  vast  and  dark  as  the  night  to 
him.     He  cannot  answer  it ;  can  you  1 

Vast  and  dark  and  pitiless  is  the  night.  But  the  morn- 
ing will  surely  come  ;  and  after  all  the  wrongs  and  tumults 
of  life  will  rise  the  dawn  of  the  Day  of  God.  And  then 
every  question  of  fate,  though  it  fill  the  universe  for  you 
now,  shall  dissolve  in  the  brightness  like  a  vapor,  and 
vanish  like  a  little  cloud. 

Meanwhile  a  servant  comes  out  and  drives  Fessenden's 


10:2  FESSENDEN'S. 

away  from  the  fence.  He  recommenced  his  wanderings, 
—  up  one  street  and  down  another,  in  search  of  a  place  to 
lay  his  head.  The  inferior  dwelhngs  he  passed  by.  But 
when  he  arrived  at  a  particularly  fine  one,  there  he  rang. 
Was  it  not  natural  for  him  to  infer  that  the  largest  houses 
had  amplest  accommodations,  and  that  the  rich  could  best 
afford  to  be  bounteous  1  If  in  all  these  spacious  mansions 
there  was  no  little  nook  for  him,  if  out  of  their  luxuries 
not  a  blanket  or  crust  could  be  spared,  what  could  he  hope 
from  the  poor'?  You  see,  he  was  not  altogether  witless,  if 
he  was  a  —  Fessenden's.  Another  proof:  At  -whatever 
house  he  applied,  he  never  committed  the  vulgarity  of  a 
detour  to  the  back  entrance,  but  advanced  straight,  with 
bold  and  confident  port,  to  the  front  door.  The  reason  of 
which  was  equally  simple  and  clear  :  front  doors  were  the 
most  convenient  and  inviting ;  and  what  were  they  made  • 
for,  if  not  to  go  in  at  1 

But  he  grew  weary  of  ringing  and  of  being  repulsed.  It 
was  dismal  standing  still,  however,  and  quite  as  comfortless 
sitting  down.  He  was  so  cold  !  So,  to  keep  his  blood  in 
motion,  he  keeps  his  limbs  in  motion,  —  till,  lo  !  here  he 
is  again  at  the  house  where  the  happy  children  were ! 
They  have  ceased  their  play.  Two  young  girls  are  at  the 
window,  gazing  out  into  the  darkness,  as  if  expecting 
some  one.  Not  you,  miserable  !  You  need  n't  stop  and 
make  signs  for  them  to  admit  you.  There  !  don't  you  see 
you  have  frightened  themi  You  are  not  a  fitting  spec- 
tacle for  such  sweet-eyed  darlings.  They  do  well  to  drop 
the  shade,  to  shut  out  the  darkness,  and  the  dim,  gesticu- 
lating phantom.  Flit  on !  'T  is  their  father  they  are 
looking  for,  coming  home  to  them  with  gifts  from  the  city. 

But  he  does  not  flit.  When,  presently,  they  lift  a  corner 
of  the  shade  and  peep  out,  they  see  him  still  standing 
there,  spectral  in  the  gloom.     He  is  waiting  for  them  to 


FESSENDEN'S.  103 

open  the  door  !  He  thinks  they  have  quitted  the  window 
for  that  purpose  !  Ah  !  here  comes  the  father,  and  they 
are  glad. 

He  comes  hurrying  from  the  cars  under  his  umbrella, 
which  is  braced  against  the  gale  and  shuts  out  from  his 
eyes  the  sight  of  the  unsheltered  wretch.  And  he  is 
hastily  entering  his  door,  which  is  opened  to  him  by  the 
eager  children,  when  they  scream  alarm ;  and  looking  over 
his  shoulder,  he  perceives,  following  at  his  heels,  the  fright. 
He  is  one  of  your  full-blooded,  solid  men;  but  he  is 
startled. 

"  What  do  you  want  1 "  he  cries,  and  lifts  the  threaten- 
ing umbrella. 

"  I  'm  hungry,"  says  the  intruder,  with  a  ghastly  glare, 
still  advancing. 

He  stands  taller  in  his  tattered  shoes  than  the  solid 
gentleman  in  his  boots ;  and  those  long,  lean,  claw-like 
hands  act  as  if  anxious  to  clutch  something.  Papa  thinks 
it  is  his  throat. 

"  By  heavens  !  do  you  mean  to  —  "  And  he  prepares  to 
charge  umbrella. 

"  You  may  ! "  answers  the  wretch,  with  perfect  sincerity, 
presenting  his  ragged  bosom  to  the  blow. 

The  lord  of  the  castle  lowers  his  weapon.  The  children 
huddle  behind  him,  hushing  their  screams. 

"  Go  in,  Minnie  !  In,  all  of  you  !  Tell  Stephen  to  come 
here,  —  quick  !  " 

The  children  scamper.  And  the  florid,  prosperous 
parent  and  the  gaunt  and  famishing  vagrant  are  alone, 
confi^onting  each  other  by  the  light  of  the  shining  hall- 
lamp. 

"I'm  cold,"  says  the  latter, — "and  wet,"  with  an 
aguish  shiver. 

"  I  should  think  so ! "  cries  the  gentleman,  recovering 


104  FESSENDEN'S. 

from  his  alarm,  and  getting  his  breath  again,  as  he  hears 
Stephen's  step  behind  him.  ''Stand  back,  can't  you?" 
(indignantly.)  "Don't  you  see  you  are  dripping  on  the 
carpet ] " 

"I  'm  so  tired  !  " 

"  Well !  you  need  n't  rub  yourself  against  the  door,  if 
you  are  !  Don't  you  see  you  are  smearing  it  1  What  are 
you  roaming  about  in  this  way  for,  intruding  into  people's 
houses  1 " 

"  Please,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  is  the  soft,  sad  answer ;  and 
Fessenden's  is  meekly  taking  himself  away. 

"It  's  too  bad,  though ! "  says  the  man,  relenting. 
"  What  can  we  do  with  this  fellow,  Stephen  1 " 

"Send  him  around  to  Judge  Gingerford's,  —  I  should 
say  that 's  about  the  best  thing  to  do  with  him,"  says  the 
witty  Stephen. 

The  man  knew  well  what  would  please.  His  master's 
face  lighted  up.  He  rubbed  his  hands,  and  regarded  the 
vagabond  with  a  humorous  twinkle,  with  malice  in  it. 

"  Would  you,  Stephen  1  By  George,  I  've  a  good  notion 
to  !     Take  the  umbrella,  and  go  and  show  him  the  way." 

Stephen  did  not  like  that. 

"  I  was  only  joking,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  A  good  joke,  too !  Here,  you  fellow  !  go  with  my 
man.  He  '11  take  you  to  a  house  where  you  '11  find  friends. 
Excellent  folks !  damned  philanthropical !  red-hot  aboli- 
tionists !  If  you  only  had  nigger  blood,  now,  they  'd  treat 
you  like  a  prince.  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  advise  you  to 
tell  'em  you  're  about  a  quarter  nigger,  —  they  '11  think 
ten  times  as  much  of  you  !  " 

It  was  sufficiently  evident  that  the  gentleman  did  not 
love  his  neighbor  the  Judge.  With  his  own  hands  he 
spread  again  the  soaked  umbrella,  and,  giving  it  to  the 
reluctant    Stephen,   sent   him   away  with   the  vagabond. 


FESSENDEN'S.  105 

Then  he  shut  the  door,  and  went  in.  By  the  fire  he  pulled 
oflt'  his  wet  boots,  and  put  on  the  warm  slippers,  which  the 
children  brought  him  with  innocent  strife  to  see  which 
should  be  foremost.  And  he  gave  to  each  kisses  and  toys ; 
for  he  was  a  kind  father.  And  sitting  down  to  supper, 
with  their  beaming  faces  around  him,  he  thought  of  the 
beggar-boy  only  in  connection  with  the  jocular  spite  he 
had  indulged  against  his  neighbor. 

Meanwhile  the  disgusted  Stephen,  walking  alone  under 
the  umbrella,  drove  Fessenden's  before  him  through  the 
storm.     They  turned  a  corner.     Stephen  stopped. 

"  There,  that 's  the  house,  where  the  lights  are.  Good 
by  !  Luck  to  you  ! "  And  Stephen  and  umbrella  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness. 

Fessenden's  kept  on,  wearily,  wearily  !  He  reached  the 
house.  And  lo !  it  was  the  same  at  the  door  of  which 
the  lady  had  told  him  that  he,  with  his  name,  was  not 
wanted.  Tiger  slept  in  his  kennel,  and  dreamed  of  bark- 
ing at  beggars.  The  Judge,  snugly  ensconced  in  his  studj^, 
listened  to  the  report  of  his  speech  before  the  Timberville 
Benevolent  Association.  His  son  read  it  aloud,  in  the 
columns  of  the  "  Timberville  Gazette."  Gingerford  smiled 
and  nodded;  for  it  sounded  well.  And  Mrs.  Gingerford 
was  pleased  and  proud.  And  the  heart  of  Gingerford 
Junior  swelled  with  the  fervor  of  the  eloquence,  and  with 
exultation  in  his  father's  talents  and  distinction,  as  he 
read.  The  sleet  rattled  a  pleasant  accompaniment  against 
the  window-shutters;  and  the  organ-pipes  of  the  wind 
sounded  a  solemn  symphony.  This  last  night  of  Novem- 
ber was  genial  and  bright  to  these  worthy  people,  in  their 
little  family  circle.  And  the  future  was  full  of  promise. 
And  the  rhetoric  of  the  orator  settled  the  duty  of  man  to 
man  so  satisfactorily,  and  painted  the  pleasures  of  benev- 
olence in  such  colors,  that  all  their  bosoms  glowed. 
5* 


106  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  It  is  gratifying  to  think,"  said  Mrs.  Gingerford,  wiping 
her  eyes  at  the  pathetic  close,  "  how  much  good  the  print- 
ing of  that  address  in  the  '  Gazette '  must  accomphsh.  It 
will  reach  many  so,  who  had  n't  the  good  fortune  to  hear  it 
at  the  rooms." 

Certainly,  madam.  The  "Gazette"  is  taken,  and  per- 
haps read  this  very  evening,  in  every  one  of  the  houses  at 
which  the  homeless  one  has  applied  in  vain  for  shelter, 
since  you  frowned  him  from  your  door.  Those  exalted 
sentiments,  breathed  in  musical  periods,  are  no  doubt  a 
rich  legacy  to  the  society  of  Timberville,  and  to  the  world. 
It  was  wise  to  print  them ;  they  will  "  reach  many  so." 
But  will  they  reach  this  outcast  beggar-boy,  and  benefit 
him  1     Alas,  it  is  fast  growing  too  late  for  that ! 

Utter  fatigue  and  discouragement  have  overtaken  him. 
The  former  notion  of  dying  in  the  fields  recurs  to  him 
now;  and  wretched  indeed  must  he  be,  since  even  that 
desperate  thought  has  a  sort  of  comfort  in  it.  But  he  is 
too  weary  to  seek  out  some  suitably  retired  spot  to  take 
cold  leave  of  life  in.  On  every  side  is  darkness  ;  on  every 
side,  wild  storm.  Why  endeavor  to  drag  farther  his  be- 
numbed limbs]  As  well  stretch  himself  here,  upon  this 
wet  wintry  sod,  as  anywhere.  He  has  the  presumption  to 
do  it,  —  never  considering  how  deeply  he  may  injure  a  fine 
gentleman^s  feelings  by  dying  at  his  door. 

Tiger  does  not  bark  him  away,  but  only  dreams  of  bark- 
ing, in  his  cosey  kennel.  Close  by  are  the  windows  of  the 
mansion,  glowing  with  light.  There  beat  the  philanthropic 
hearts ;  there  smiles  the  pale,  pensive  lady ;  there  beams 
the  aspiring  face  of  her  son;  and  there  sits  the  Judge, 
with  his  feet  on  the  rug,  pleasantly  contemplating  the 
good  his  speech  will  do,  and  thinking  quite  as  much, 
perhaps,  of  the  fame  it  will  bring  him,  —  haj^pily  uncon- 
scious alike  of  his  neighbor's  malicious  jest,  and  of  the 


FESSENDEN'S.  107 

real  victim  of  that  jest,  lying  out  there  in  the  tempest  and 
freezing  rain. 

So  November  goes  out ;  and  winter,  boisterous  and  tri- 
umphant, comes  in. 


II. 

fessenden's  gets  a  ride. 

Sunday  morning :  cold  and  clear.  The  December  sun 
shines  upon  the  glassy  turf,  and  upon  trees  all  clad  in 
armor  of  glittering  ice.  And  the  trees  creak  and  rattle  in 
the  north  wind;  and  the  icy  splinters  fall  tinkling  to  the 
ground. 

The  splendor  of  the  morning  gilds  the  Judge's  estate. 
Everything  about  the  mansion  smiles  and  sparkles.  Were 
last  night's  horrors  a  dream  1 

There  was  danger,  we  remember,  that  the  foolish  youth 
might  do  a  very  inconsiderate  and  shocking  thing,  and 
perhaps  ruin  the  Judge.  What  if  he  had  really  deposited 
his  mortal  remains  at  the  gate  of  that  worthy  man,  —  to 
be  found  there,  ghastly  and  stiff,  a  revolting  spectacle,  this 
bright  morning  1  What  a  commentary  on  Gingerford  phi- 
lanthropy !  For  of  course  some  one  would  at  once  have 
stepped  forward  to  testify  to  having  seen  him  driven  from 
the  door,  which  he  came  back  to  lay  his  bones  near.  And 
Stephen  would  have  been  on  hand  to  remember  directing 
such  a  person,  inquiring  his  way  a  second  time  to  the 
Judge's  house.  And  here  he  is  dead,  —  to  the  secret 
delight  of  the  Judge's  enemies,  and  to  the  indignation  of 
all  Timberville.  At  anybody  else's  door  it  would  n't  have 
seemed  so  bad.  But  at  Gingerford's  !  a  philanthropist  by 
profession  !  author  of  that  beautiful  speech  you  cried  over  ! 


108  FESSENDEN'S. 

You  will  never  forgive  him  those  tears.  The  greatest 
crime  a  man  can  be  guilty  of  in  the  eyes  of  his  constituents 
is  to  have  been  over-praised  by  them.  Woe  to  him,  when 
they  find  out  their  error !  and  woe  now  to  the  Judge  ! 
The  fact  that  a  dozen  other  influential  citizens  had  also 
refused  shelter  to  the  vagabond  will  not  help  the  matter. 
Those  very  men  will  probably  "be  the  first  to  cry,  "  Hypo- 
crite !  inhuman!  a  judgment  upon  him!"  —  for  it  is 
always  the  person  of  doubtful  virtue  who  is  most  eager  to 
assume  the  appearance  of  severe  integrity ;  and  we  often 
flatter  ourselves  that  our  private  faults  are  atoned  for, 
when  we  have  loudly  denounced  the  same  in  others. 

Fortunately,  the  flower  of  the  Judge's  reputation  is 
saved  from  so  terrible  a  blight.  There  is  no  corpse  at  his 
gate  ;  and  our  speculations  are  idle. 

This  is  what  had  occurred. 

Not  long  after  the  lad  had  lain  down,  a  dream-like  spell 
came  over  him.  His  pain  was  gone.  He  forgot  that  he 
was  cold.  He  was  not  hungry  any  more.  A  sweet  sense 
of  rest  was  diffused  through  his  tired  limbs.  And  smiling 
and  soothed  he  lay,  while  the  storm  beat  upon  him.  Was 
this  death  1  For  we  know  that  in  this  merciful  shape 
death  sometimes  comes  to  the  sufferer. 

Fessenden's  afterwards  said  that  he  had  "one  of  his 
fits."  He  was  subject  to  such.  When  men  reviled  and 
denied  him,  then  came  the  angels,  —  or  he  imagined  they 
came.  They  walked  by  his  side,  and  talked  with  him , 
and  often,  all  a  summer's  afternoon,  he  could  be  heard 
conversing  in  the  fields,  as  with  familiar  friends,  when 
only  himself  was  visible,  and  his  voice  alone  was  heard  in 
the  silence.  This  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  idiosyncrasies 
which  had  earned  him  his  shameful  name. 

In  the  trance  of  that  night,  lying  cold  upon  the  ground, 
he   beheld   his   ghostly  visitors.     They  came    and    stood 


FESSENDEN'S.  109 

around  him,  a  shining  company,  and  looked  upon  him  with 
countenances  of  fair  women  and  good  men.  Their  apparel 
was  not  unlike  that  of  mortals.  And  he  heard  them 
questioning  among  themselves  how  they  should  help  him. 
And  one  of  them,  as  it  seemed,  brought  human  assistance ; 
though  the  boy,  Avho  could  see  plenty  of  ghosts,  could  not, 
for  some  reason,  see  the  only  actually  visible  and  substan- 
tial person  then  on  the  spot  besides  himself  He  felt, 
however,  sensibly  enough,  the  concussion  of  a  stout  pair 
of  mortal  legs  that  presently  went  stumbling  over  him  in 
the  dark.  The  shock  roused  him.  The  whole  shadowy 
company  vanished ;  and  in  their  place  he  saw,  by  the 
glimmer  from  the  Judge's  windows,  a  dark  sprawling  fig- 
ure getting  up  out  of  the   mud  and  water. 

"  Don't  be  scaret,  it 's  me,"  said  Fessenden's ;  for  he 
guessed  the  fellow  was  frightened. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir  !  I  really  did  n't  know  it  was  you, 
sir  !  "  said  the  man,  with  agitated  politeness.  "  And  who 
might  you  be,  sirl  if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to  inquire." 
And  regaining  his  balance,  his  umbrella,  and  his  self-pos- 
session, he  drew  near  and  squatted  cautiously  before  the 
prostrate  beggar,  who,  had  his  eyesight  been  half  as  keen 
for  the  living  as  it  was  for  the  dead,  would  have  discovered 
that  the  face  bending  over  him  was  black. 

''  Never   mind    me,"  said   Fessenden's.     "  Did    it   hurt 


ye 


"  Well,  sir,  —  no,  sir,  —  only  my  knee  went  pretty  seri- 
ously into  something  wet.  And  I  believe  I  've  turned  my 
umbrella  wrong  side  out.  I  say,  sir,  what  was  you  doing, 
lying  here,  sir  1  You  don't  think  of  remaining  here  all 
night,  I  trust,  sir  ? " 

"  I've  nowhere  else  to  go,"  said  the  boy,  trying  to  rise. 

The  black  man  helped  him  up. 

"  But  this  never  '11  do,  you  know  !   such  an  inclement 


110  FESSKNDEN'S. 

night  as  this  is  !  —  yoii  'd  die  before  morning,  sure  !  Just 
wait  till  I  can  get  my  umbrella  into  shape,  —  my  gra- 
cious !  how  the  wind  pulls  it  !  Now,  then,  suppose  you 
come  along  with  me." 

*'  Please,  sir,  I  can't  walk " ;  for  the  lad's  limbs  had 
stiffened,  in  spite  of  his  angels. 

"  Is  that  so,  sir  *?  Let  me  see  ;  about  how  much  do  you 
weigh,  sir  1  Not  much  above  a  hundred,  do  you  ?  It 
is  n't  impossible  but  I  may  take  you  on  my  back.  Sup- 
pose you  try  it." 

"  0,  I  can't !  "  groaned  the  boy. 

"  Excuse  me  for  contradicting  jou,  but  I  think  you  can, 
sir.  I  should  n't  like  to  do  it  myself,  in  the  daytime  ;  but 
in  the  night  so,  who  cares  1  Nobody  '11  laugh  at  us,  even 
if  we  don't  succeed.  Really,  I  wish  you  was  n't  quite  so 
wet,  sir ;  for  these  here  is  my  Sunday  clothes.  But 
never  mind  a  little  water ;  we  '11  find  a  fire  to  get  dry 
again.  There  you  are,  my  friend  !  A  little  higher.  Put 
your  hands  over  across  my  breast.  Could  n't  manage  to 
hold  the  umbrella  over  us,  could  you  1  So  fashion. 
Now  steady,   while  I   rise  with  you." 

And  the  stalwart  young  negro,  hooking  his  arms  well 
under  the  legs  of  his  rider,  got  up  stoopingly,  gave  a  toss 
and  a  jolt  to  get  him  into  the  right  position,  and  walked 
off  with  him.  Away  they  go,  tramp,  tramp,  in  the  storm 
and  darkness.  Thank  Heaven,  the  Judge's  fame  is  safe  ! 
If  the  pauper  dies,  it  will  not  be  at  his  door.  Little  he 
knows,  there  in  his  elegant  study,  what  an  inestimable 
service  this  black  Samaritan  is  rendering  him.  And  it 
was  just ;  for,  after  all  the  Judge  had  done  for  the  negro 
(who,  I  suppose,  was  equally  unconscious  of  any  substan- 
tial benefit  received),  it  was  time  that  the  negro  should 
do  something  for  him  in  return. 

Tramp !   tramp  !    a   famous   beggar's   ride !     It   was   a 


FESSENDEN'S.  1 1 1 

picturesque  scene,  with  food  for  laughter  and  tears  in  it, 
had  we  only  been  there  with  a  lantern.  Fessenden's  fan- 
tastic astride  of  the  African,  staring  forward  into  the 
darkness  from  under  his  ragged  hat-brim,  endeavoring  to 
hold  the  wreck  of  an  umbrella  over  them,  —  the  wind 
flapping  and  whirling  it.  Tramp  !  tramp  !  past  all  those 
noble  mansions,  to  the  negro  hut  beyond  the  village. 
And,  0,  to  think  of  it !  the  rich  citizens,  the  enlightened 
and  white-skinned  Levites,  having  left  him  out,  one  of 
their  own  race,  to  perish  in  the  storm,  this  despised  black 
man  is  found,  alone  of  all  the  world,  to  show  mercy  unto 
him  ! 

"  How  do  you  get  on,  sir  1 "  says  the  stout  young 
Ethiop.  "Would  you  ride  easier,  if  I  should  trof?  or 
would  you  prefer  a  canter  1  Tell  'em  to  bring  on  their 
two-forty  nags  now,  if  they  ^vant  a  race." 

Talking  in  this  strain  to  keep  up  his  rider's  spirits,  he 
brought  him,  not  without  sweat  and  toil,  to  the  hut.  A 
kick  on  the  door  with  the  beggar's  foot,  which  he  used  for 
the  purpose,  caused  it  to  be  opened  by  a  woolly-headed 
urchin ;  and  in  he  staggered. 

Little  woolly-head  clapped  his  hands  and  screamed. 

"  0  crackie,  pappy  !  here  comes  Bill  with  the  Devil  on 
his  back !  " 

Sensation  in  the  hut.  There  was  an  old  negro  woman 
in  the  corner,  at  one  side  of  the  stove,  knitting ;  and  a 
very  old  negro  man  in  the  opposite  corner,  napping ;  and 
a  middle-aged  man  with  spectacles  on  his  ebony  nose, 
reading  slowly  aloud  from  an  ancient  greasy-covered  book 
opened  before  him  on  the  old  pine  table ;  and  a  middle- 
aged  woman  patching  a  jacket  ;  and  a  girl  washing  dishes 
which  another  girl  was  wiping;  representatives  of  four 
generations :  and  they  all  quitted  their  occupations  at 
once,  to  see  what  sort  of  a  devil  Bill  had  brought  home. 


112  FESSENDEN'S. 

"Why,  William!  who  have  you  got  there,  William]" 
said  he  of  the  spectacles,  with  mild  wonder,  removing 
those  clerkly  aids  of  vision  and  laying  them  across  the 
book. 

"  A  chair  !  "  panted  Bill.  "  Now  ease  him  down,  if  you 
please,  —  careful,  —  and  I  '11  —  recite  the  circumstances," 
—  puffing,  but  polite  to  the  last. 


III. 

MAKES   ACQUAINTANCE   WITH    THE   WILLIAMS    FAMILY. 

Helpless  and  gasping,  Fessenden's  w^as  unfastened,  and 
slipped  down  the  African's  back  upon  a  seat  placed  to 
receive  him.  He  still  clung  to  the  umbrella,  which  he 
endeavored  to  keep  spread  over  him,  while  he  stared 
around  with  stupid  amazement  at  the  dim  room  and  the 
array  of  black  faces. 

And  now  the  excited  urchin  began  to  caper  and  sing  :  — 

"  '  Went  down  to  river,  could  n't  get  across  ; 

Jumped  upon  a  nigger's  back,  thought  it  was  a  hoss  ! ' 

0,  crackie,  Bill !  " 

"  Father,"  said  William,  with  wounded  dignity,  —  for 
he  was  something  of  a  gentleman  in  his  way,  — -  "  I  wish 
you  'd  discipline  that  child,  or  else  give  me  permission  to 
chuck  him." 

"Joseph  !"  said  the  father,  with  a  stern  shake  of  his 
big  black  head  at  the  boy,  "  here 's  a  stranger  in  the 
house  !     Walk  straight,  Joseph  !  " 

Which  solemn  injunction  Joseph  obeyed  in  a  highly 
offensive  manner,  by  strutting  off  in  imitation  of  William's 
dandified  air. 


FESSENDEN'S.  113 

Bj  this  time  the  aged  negro  in  the  corner  had  become 
fully  roused  to  the  consciousness  of  a  guest  in  the  house. 
He  came  forward  with  slow,  shuffling  step.  He  was 
almost  blind.  He  was  exceedingly  deaf  He  was  with- 
ered and  wrinkled  in  the  last  degree.  His  countenance 
was  of  the  color  of  rust-eaten  bronze.  He  was  more  than 
a  hundred  years  old,  —  the  father  of  the  old  woman,  the 
grandfather  of  the  middle-aged  man,  and  the  gi'eat-grand- 
father  of  William,  Joseph,  and  the  girls.  He  was  muffled 
in  rags,  and  wore  a  little  cap  on  his  head.  This  he 
removed  with  his  left  hand,  exposing  a  little  battered 
tea-kettle  of  a  bald  pate,  as  with  smiling  politeness  he 
reached  out  the  other  trembling  hand  to  shake  that  of  the 
stranger. 

"  Welcome,  sah  !     Sarvant,  sah  !  " 

He  bowed  and  smiled  again,  and  the  hospitable  duty 
was  performed ;  after  which  he  put  on  his  cap  and  shuffled 
back  into  his  corner,  gi-eatly  marvelled  at  by  the  gazing 
beggar-boy. 

The  girls  and  their  mother  now  bestirred  themselves  to 
get  their  guest  something  to  eat.  The  tin  teapot  was 
set  on  the  stove,  and  hash  was  warmed  up  in  the  spider. 
In  the  mean  time  William  somewhat  ruefully  took  off  his 
wet  Sunday  coat,  and  hung  it  to  dry  by  the  stove,  inter- 
polating affectionate  regrets  for  the  soiled  garment  with 
the  narration  of  his  adventure. 

"  It  was  the  merest  chance  my  coming  that  way,"  he 
explained ;  "  for  I  had  got  started  up  the  other  street, 
when  something  says  to  me,  '  Go  by  Gingerford's !  go  by 
Judge  Gingerford's ! '  so  I  altered  my  course,  and  the 
result  was,  just  as  I  got  against  the  Judge's  gate  I  was 
precipitated  over  this  here  person." 

"  I  know  what  made  ye  ! "  spoke  up  the  boy,  with  an 
earnest  stare. 

u 


114  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  What,  sir,  if  you  please  1 " 

"  The  angels  !  " 

"  The  —  the  what,  sir^' 

''  The  angels  !     I  seen  'em  !  "  says  Fessenden's. 

This  astounding  announcement  was  followed  by  a 
strange  hush.  Bill  forgot  to  smooth  out  the  creases  of 
his  coat,  and  looked  suspiciously  at  the  youth  whom  it 
had  served  as  a  saddle.  He  wondered  if  he  had  really 
been  ridden  by  the  Devil. 

The  old  woman  now  interfered.  She  was  at  least  sev- 
enty years  of  age.  The  hair  of  her  head  was  like  mixed 
carded  wool.  Her  coarse,  cleanly  gown  was  composed  of 
many-colored,  curious  patches.  The  atmosphere  of  thor- 
ough grandmotherly  goodness  surrounded  her.  In  the 
twilight  sky  of  her  dusky  face  twinkled  shrewdness  and 
good-humor ;  and  her  voice  was  full  of  authority  and 
kindness. 

"  Stan'  back  here  now,  you  troubles  ! "  pushing  the  chil- 
dren aside.  "  Did  n't  none  on  ye  never  see  nobody  afore  1 
This  'ere  child  's  got  to  be  took  keer  on,  and  that  mighty 
soon  !     Gi'  me  the  comf 'table  off  'm  the  bed,  mammy." 

"  Mammy "  was  the  mother  of  the  children.  The 
"  comf  'table "  was  brought,  and  she  and  her  husband 
helped  the  old  negress  wrap  Fessenden's  up  in  it,  from 
head  to  foot,  wet  clothes  and  all. 

"  Now  your  big  warm  grot-cut,  pappy  ! " 

•'  Pappy  "  was  her  own  son ;  and  the  "  gret-cut "  was 
his  old,  gray,  patched  and  double-patched  surtout,  which 
now  came  down  from  its  peg,  and  spread  its  broad  flaps, 
like  brooding  wings,  over  the  half  -  drowned  human 
chicken. 

'•'Now  put  in  the  wood,  boys  !  Pour  some  of  that 'ere 
hot  tea  down  his  throat  Bless  him,  we  '11  sweat  the  cold 
out  of  him  !  we  '11  give  him  a  steaming  !  " 


FESSENDEN'S.  115 

She  held  with  her  own  hand  the  cracked  teacup  to  the 
lad's  lips,  and  made  him  drink.  Then  she  pulled  up  the 
comforter  about  his  face,  till  nothing  of  him  was  visible 
but  his  nose  and  a  curl  or  two  of  saturated  tow.  Then  she 
had  him  moved  up  close  to  the  glowing  stove,  like  a  huge 
chrysalis  to  be  hatched  by  the  heat. 

The  dozing  centenarian  now  roused  himself  again,  and, 
perceiving  the  little  nose  in  the  big  bundle  on  the  other 
side  of  the  chimney,  was  once  more  reminded  of  the 
sacred  duties  of  hospitality.  So  he  got  upon  his  trem- 
bling old  legs,  pulled  oflf  his  cap,  and  bowed  and  smiled  as 
before,  with  exquisite  politeness,  across  the  stove.  "  Sar- 
vant,  sah  !  Welcome,  sah  !  "  And  he  sat  down  and  dozed 
again. 

Fessenden's  was  not  in  a  position  to  retm-n  the  cour- 
teous salute.  The  old  woman  had  by  this  time  got  his 
feet  packed  into  the  stove-oven,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
smoke. 

"  0  Bill !  just  look  a'  Joe  !  "  cried  one  of  the  girls. 

Bill  left  smoothing  his  broadcloth,  and,  turning  up  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  uttered  a  despairing  groan.  "  0,  that 
child  !  that  child  !  that  child  ! "  —  his  voice  nmning  up 
into  a  wild  falsetto  howl. 

The  child  thus  passionately  alluded  to  had  possessed 
himself  of  Bill's  genteel  silk  hat,  which  had  been  tenderly 
put  away  to  dry.  It  had  been  sadly  soaked  by  the  rain, 
and  bruised  by  the  flopping  umbrella  which  Fessenden's 
had  unhappily  attempted  to  hold  over  it.  And  now  Joe 
had  knocked  in  the  crown,  whilst  getting  it  down  from  its 
peg  with  the  broom.  He  had  thought  to  improve  its 
appearance  by  stroking  the  nap  the  wrong  way  with  his 
sleeve.  Lastly,  putting  it  on  his  head,  he  had  crushed 
the  sides  together  to  prevent  its  coming  quite  down  over 
his  eyes  and  ears  and  resting  on  his  shoulders.     And  there 


116  FESSEXDEN'S. 

he  was,  with  the  broken  umbrella  spread,  hitting  the  top 
of  the  hat  with  it  at  every  step,  as  he  strutted  around  the 
room  in  emulation  of  his  brother's  elegant  style. 

"  My  name 's  Mr.  Bill  Williams,  Asquare  !  "  simpered  the 
little  satirist.  "  Some  folks  call  me  Gentleman  Bill,  'cause 
I  'm  so  smart  and  good-looking,  sar  ! " 

Gentleman  Bill  picked  up  the  jack  with  which  he  had 
pulled  off  his  wet  boots,  and  waited  for  a  good  chance  to 
launch  it  at  Joe's  head.  But  Joe  kept  behind  his  grand- 
mother, and  proceeded  with  his  mimicry. 

"  Nobody  knows  I  'm  smart  and  good-looking  'cept  me, 
and  that 's  why  I  tell  on 't,  sar ;  that 's  the  reason  I 
excite  the  stircumstances,  sar  ! "  He  remembered  Bill's 
saying  he  would  "  recite  the  circumstances,"  and  this  was 
as  near  as  he  could  come  to  the  precise  words.  "  I  'm  a 
gentleman  tailor ;  that 's  my  perfession,  sar.  Work  over 
to  the  North  Village,  sar.  Come  home  Sat'day  nights  to 
stop  over  Sunday  with  the  folks,  and  show  my  good 
clo'es.  How  d'  'e  do,  sar "?  Perty  well,  thank  ye,  sar." 
And  Joe,  putting  down  the  umbrella,  in  order  to  lift  the 
ingulfing  hat  from  his  little  round,  black,  curly  head  with 
both  hands,  made  a  most  extravagant  bow  to  the  chrysalis. 

"  Old  gi'anny  ! "  hoarsely  whispered  Bill,  "  you  just 
stand  out  of  the  way  once,  while  I  propel  this  boot- 
jack ! " 

"  Old  granny  don't  stan'  out  o'  the  way  oncet,  for  you 
to  frow  no  boot-jack  in  this  house  !  S'pose  I  want  to  see. 
that  child's  head  stove  in^  Which  is  mos'  consequence, 
I  'd  like  to  know,  your  hat,  or  his  head  1  Hats  enough  in 
the  world.  But  that  'ere  head  is  an  oncommon  head,  and 
bless  the  boy,  if  he  should  lose  that,  I  do'no'  where  he  'd 
git  another  like  it  !  Come,  no  more  fuss  now  !  I  got  to 
make  some  gruel  for  this  'ere  poor,  wet,  starvin'  critter. 
That   hash   a'n't    the   thing   for  him,    mammy,  —  you  'd 


FESSENDEN'S.  117 

ought  to  know  !  He  wants  somefin'  light  and  comfortin', 
that  '11  warm  his  in'ards,  and  make  him  sweat,  bless  him  ! 
- —  Joey  !  Joey  !  give  up  that  'ere  hat  now  !  " 

"  Take  it  then  !     Mean  old  thing, —  I  don't  want  it  !  " 

Joe  extended  it  on  the  point  of  the  umbrella  ;  but  just 
as  Bill  was  reaching  to  receive  it,  he  gave  it  a  little  toss, 
which  sent  it  into  the  chip-basket. 

"  Might  know  I  'd  had  on  your  hat  ! "  and  the  little 
rogue  scratched  his  head  furiously. 

"  I  shall  certainly  massacre  that  child  some  fine  morn- 
ing !  "  muttered  Bill,  ruefully  extricating  the  insulted  arti- 
cle from  the  basket.  "  0  my  gracious  !  only  look  at  that, 
now,  Creshy  !  "  to  his  sister.  "  That 's  an  interesting  ob- 
ject, is  n't  it  1  for  a  gentleman  to  think  of  putting  on  to 
his  head  Sunday  morning  !  " 

"  0  Bill  ! "  cried  Creshy,  "just  look  a'  Joe  ag'in  !  " 

Whilst  he  was  sorrowfully  restoring  his  hat  to  its  pris- 
tine shape,  he  had  been  robbed  of  his  coat.  The  thief  had 
run  with  it  behind  the  bed,  where  he  had  succeeded  in 
getting  into  it.  The  collar  enveloped  his  ears.  The 
skirts  dragged  upon  the  floor.  He  had  buttoned  it,  to 
make  it  fit  better ;  but  there  was  still  room  in  it  for  two 
or  three  boys.  He  had  got  on  his  father's  spectacles  and 
the  beggar's  straw  hat.  He  looked  like  a  frightful  little  old 
misshapen  dwarf.  And  now  rolling  up  the  sleeves  to 
find  his  hands,  and  wrinkling  the  coat  outrageously  at 
every  movement,  he  advanced  from  his  retreat,  and  began 
to  dance  a  pigeon-wing,  amid  the  convulsive  laughter  of 
the  girls. 

"  0  my  soul  !  my  soul  !  "  cried  Bill,  his  voice  inclining 
again  to  the  falsetto.  "  Was  there  ever  such  an  imp  of 
Satin  1     Was  there  ever  —  " 

Here  he  made  a  lunge  at  the  offender.  Joe  attempted 
to  escape,  but  getting  his  feet  entangled  in  the  snperabun- 


118  FESSENDEN'S. 

dant  coat-skirts,  fell,  screaming  as  if  he  were  about  to  be 
killed. 

"  Good  enough  for  you  !  "  said  his  mother.  "  I  wish 
you  would  get  hurt  !  " 

"  What  you  wish  that  for '? "  cried  the  old  grandmother, 
rushing  to  the  rescue,  brandishing  a  long  iron  spoon  with 
which  she  had  been  stirring  the  gruel.  "Can't  nobody 
never  have  no  fun  in  this  house  1  Bless  us  !  what  'ud  we 
do,  if  't  wa'n't  for  Joey,  to  make  us  laugh  and  keep  our 
sperits  up  1  Jest  you  stan'  back  now.  Bill !  —  'd  ruther 
you  'd  strike  me  'n  see  ye  hit  that  'ere  boy  oncet !  " 

"He  must  let  my  things  be,  then,"  said  Bill,  who 
could  n't  see  much  sport  in  the  disrespectful  use  made  of 
his  wearing  apparel.  —  "  Here,  you  !  surrender  my  prop- 
erty ! " 

"  Laws  !  you  be  quiet  !  You  '11  git  yer  cut  ag'in.  Only 
jest  look  at  him  now,  he  's  so  blessed  cunning  !  " 

For  Joe,  reassured  by  his  grandmother,  had  stopped 
screaming,  and  gone  to  tailoring.  He  sat  cross-legged  on 
one  of  the  unlucky  coat-skirts,  and  pulled  the  other  up  on 
his  lap  for  his  work.  Then  he  got  an  imaginary  thread, 
and,  putting  his  fingers  together,  screwed  up  his  mouth, 
and  looked  over  the  spectacles,  sharpening  his  sight,  — 

"  Like  an  old  tailor  to  his  needle's  eye." 
Then  he  began  to  stitch,   to  the  infinite  disgust  of  Bill, 
who  was  sensitive  touching  his  vocation. 

"  I  do  declare,  father  !  how  you  can  smile,  seeing  that 
child  carrying  on  in  this  shape,  is  beyond  my  comprehen- 
sion ! " 

"  Joseph  !  "  said  Mr.  Williams,  good-naturedly,  "  I 
-guess  that  '11  do  for  to-night.  Come,  I  want  my  specta- 
cles." 

He  had  sat  down  to  his  book  again.  He  was  a  slow, 
thoughtful,  easy,  cheerful  man,  whom  suffering  and  much 


FESSENDEN'S.  119 

humiliation  had  rendered  very  mild  and  patient,  if  not 
quite  broken-spirited.  His  voice  was  indulgent  and  gen- 
tle, with  that  mellow  richness  of  tone  peculiar  to  the 
negro.  After  he  had  spoken,  the  laughter  subsided ;  and 
Joe,  impressed  by  the  quiet  paternal  authority,  quickly 
devised  means  to  obey  without  appearing  to  do  so.  For 
it  is  not  so  much  obedience,  as  the  manifestation  of  obe- 
dience, that  is  repugnant  to  human  nature,  —  not  in  chil- 
dren only,  but  in  grown  folks  as  well. 

Joe  disguised  his  compliance  in  this  way.  He  got  up, 
took  off  the  beggar's  hat,  put  the  spectacles  into  it,  hold- 
ing his  hand  on  a  rip  in  the  crown  to  keep  them  from 
falling  through,  and  passed  it  around,  walking  solemnly  in 
his  brother's  abused  coat. 

"  I  'm  Deacon  Todd,"  said  he,  "  taking  up  a  collection  to 
buy  Gentleman  Bill  a  new  cut  :  gunter  make  a  missionary 
of  him  !  " 

He  passed  the  hat  to  the  women  and  the  girls,  all  of 
whom  pretended  to  put.  in  something. 

"  I  ha'n't  got  nothin'  !  "  said  Fessenden's  when  it  came 
to  him  ;  "  I  'm  real  sorry  !  but  I  '11  give  my  hat !  "  —  ear- 
nest as  could  be. 

When  the  hat  came  to  Mr.  Williams,  he  quietly  put  in 
his  hand  and  took  out  his  glasses. 

"  Here,  I  've  got  something  for  you ;  I  desire  to  con- 
tribute," said  Gentleman  Bill. 

But  Joe  was  shy  of  his  brother. 

"0,  we  don't  let  the  missionary  give  anything  !  "  he 
said.  "  Here  's  the  hat  what  you  're  gunter  to  wear  ;  — 
give  it  to  him,  Creesh  !  " 

Bill  disdained  the  beggar's  contribution  ;  but,  in  his 
anxiety  to  seize  Joe,  he  suffered  his  sister  to  slip  up  behind 
him  and  clap  the  wet,  ragged  straw  wreck  on  his  head. 

"  0  Bill !  0  Bill !  "  screamed  the  girls  with  merriment. 


120  FESSENDEN'S. 

in  which  mother  and  grandmother  joined,  while  even  their 
father  indulged  in  a  silent,  inward  laugh. 

"  Good  !  "  said  Fessenden's ;  "he  may  have  it !  " 

Bill,  watching  his  opportunity,  made  a  dash  at  the  pre- 
tending Deacon  Todd.  That  nimble  and  quick-witted 
dwarf  escaped  as  fast  as  his  awkward  attire  would  pei*mit. 
The  bed  seemed  to  be  the  only  place  of  refuge,  and  he 
dodged  under  it. 

"  Come  out !  "  shouted  Bill,  furious. 

"  Come  in  and  git  me  !  "  screamed  Joe,  defiant. 

Bill,  if  not  too  large,  was  far  too  dignified  for  such  an 
enterprise.  So  he  got  the  broom  and  began  to  stir  Joe 
with  the  handle,  not  observing,  in  his  wrath,  that,  the 
more  he  worried  Joe,  the  more  he  was  damaging  his  own 
precious  broadcloth. 

"  I  'm  the  lion  to  the  show  !  "  cried  Joe,  rolling  and 
tumbling  under  the  bed  to  avoid  the  broom.  "  The  keep- 
er 's  a  punchin'  on  me,  to  make  me  roar  !  " 

And  the  lion  roared. 

"  He  's  a  gunter  come  into  the  cage  by-'m-by,  and  put 
his  head  into  my  mouth.  Then  I  'm  a  gunter  swaller 
him  !     Ki  !  hoo  !  hoo  !  oo  !  " 

He  roared  in  earnest  this  time.  Bill,  grown  desperate, 
had  knocked  his  shins.  As  long  as  he  hit  him  only  on 
the  head,  the  king  of  beasts  did  n't  care  ;  but  he  could 
n't  stand  an  attack  on  the  more  sensitive  part. 

"  Jest  look  here,  now  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  negress,  with 
unusual  spirit ;  "  gi'  me  that  broom  !  " 

She  wrenched  it  from  Bill's  hand. 

"  Perty  notion,  you  can't  come  home  a  minute  without 
pesterin'  that  boy's  life  out  of  him  !  " 

You  see,  color  makes  no  difference  with  grandmothers. 
Black  or  white,  they  are  universally  unjust,  when  they 
come  to  decide  the  quarrels  of  their  favorites. 


FESSENDEN'S.  121 

"Great  lubberly  fellow  like  you,  'busin'  that  poor 
babby  all  the  time  !  Come,  Joey !  come  to  granny,  poor 
child  ! " 

It  was  a  sorry-looking  lion  that  issued  whimpering  from 
the  cage,  limping,  and  rubbing  his  eyes.  His  borrowed 
hide  —  namely.  Bill's  coat  —  had  been  twisted  into  mar- 
vellous shapes  in  the  scuffle ;  and,  being  wet,  it  was 
almost  white  with  the  dust  and  lint  that  adhered  to  it. 
Bill  threw  up  his  arms  in  despair;  while  Joe  threw  his, 
great  sleeves  and  all,  around  granny's  neck,  and  found 
comfort  on  her  sympathizing  bosom. 


IV. 

SATURDAY   NIGHT   AND    SUNDAY. 

"Silence,  now,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  "  so  's  we  can  go  on 
with  the  reading." 

Order  was  restored.  Bill  hung  up  his  coat,  and  sat 
down.  Joe  nestled  in  the  old  woman's  lap.  And  now  the 
storm  was  heard  beating  against  the  house. 

"Say!"  spoke  up  Fessenden's,  "can  I  stop  here  over 
night  r' 

"  You  don't  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  "  we  'd  turn 
you  out  in  such  weather  as  this,  do  you  '? " 

"Wal!"  said  Fessenden's,  "nobody  else  would  keep 
me." 

"  Don't  you  be  troubled  !  While  we  've  a  ruf  over  our 
heads,  no  stranger  don't  git  turned  away  from  it  that 
wants  shelter,  and  will  put  up  with  our  'commodations. 
We  can  keep  you  to-night,  and  probably  to-morrow  night, 
if  you  like  to  stay ;  but  after  that  I  can't  promise.    Mebby 


122  FESSENDEN'S. 

we  sha'  n't  have  a  ruf  for  our  own  heads  then.  But  we  '11 
trust  the  Lord,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  with  a  deep  serious 
smile,  —  while  Mrs.  Williams  sighed. 

"How  is  it  about  that  matter  1"  Gentleman  Bill  in- 
quired. 

"  The  house  is  to  be  tore  down  Monday,  I  suppose," 
replied  his  father,  mildly. 

"  My  gracious  !  "  exclaimed  Bill ;  "  Mr.  Frisbie  a'n't 
really  going  to  carry  that  threat  into  execution  1" 

"  That 's  what  he  says,  William.  He  has  got  a  preju- 
dice ag'inst  color,  you  know.  Since  he  lost  the  election, 
through  the  opposition  of  the  abolitionists,  as  he  thinks, 
he  's  been  very  much  excited  on  the  subject,"  added  Mr. 
Williams,  in  his  subdued  way. 

"  Excited  !  "  echoed  his  wife,  bitterly. 

She  was  a  much-suffering  woman,  inclined  to  melan- 
choly ;  but  there  was  a  latent  fire  in  her  when  she  seemed 
most  despondent,  and  she  roused  up  now  and  spoke  with 
passionate,  flashing  eyes  :  — 

"  Sence  he  got  beat,  town-meetin'  day,  he  don't  'pear  to 
take  no  comfort,  'thout  't  is  hatin'  Judge  Gingerford  and 
spitin'  niggers,  as  he  calls  us.  He  sent  his  hired  man 
over  ag'in  this  mornin',  to  say,  if  we  wa'n't  out  of  the 
house  by  Monday,  't  would  be  pulled  down  on  to  our 
heads.  Call  that  Christian,  when  he  knows  we  can't  git 
another  house,  there 's  sich  a  s'picion  ag'in  people  o' 
color  1 " 

"  'T  wa'n't  alluz  so  ;  't  wa'n't  so  in  my  day,"  said  the 
old  woman,  pausing,  as  she  was  administering  the  gruel  to 
Fessenden's  with  a  spoon.  "  Here 's  gran'pa,  he  was  a 
slave,  and  I  was  born  a  slave,  in  this  here  very  State,  as 
long  ago  as  -when  they  used  to  have  slaves  here,  as  I  've 
told  ye  time  and  ag'in  ;  though  I  don't  clearly  remember 
it,  for  I  scace  ever  knowed  what  bondage  was,  bless  the 


FESSENDEN'S.  123 

Lord  !  But  we  alluz  foun'  somebody  to  be  kind  to  us,  and 
got  along,  —  for  it  did  seem  as  though  God  kind  o'  looked 
arter  us,  and  took  keer  on  ns,  same  as  he  did  o'  white 
folks.  We  've  been  carried  through,  somehow  or  'nother ; 
and  I  can't  help  thinkin'  as  how  we  shall  be  yit,  spite 
o'  Mr.  Frisbie.  S'pose  God  'U  forgit  us  'cause  his  grand 
church-folks  do  1  S'pose  all  they  can  say  '11  pedijice 
him  1 " 

Having  advanced  this  unanswerable  question,  she  turned 
once  more  to  her  patient,  who  put  up  his  head,  and  opened 
his  mouth  wide,  to  receive  the  great  spoon. 

"  Lucky  for  them  that  can  trust  the  Lord  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Williams,  over  her  patching.  "  But  if  I  was  a  man,  I  'm 
'fraid  I  should  put  my  trust  in  a  good  knife,  and  stan'  by  the 
ol'  house  when  they  come  to  pull  it  down  !  The  fust  man 
laid  hands  on  't  'ud  git  hurt,  I  'm  dreffle  'fraid  !  Prayin' 
won't  save  it,  you  see  !  " 

"  Mr.  Frisbie  owns  the  house,"  observed  Gentleman  Bill, 
"  and  I  would  n't  resort  to  violent  measures  to  prevent 
him  ;  though  't  is  n't  possible  for  me  to  believe  lie  '11  be 
so  unhuman  as  to  demolish  it  before  you  find  another." 

"  I  'm  inclined  to  think  he  will,"  answered  Mr.  Williams, 
calmly.  "  He 's  a  rather  determined  man,  William.  But 
God  won't  quite  forget  us,  I  'm  sartin  sure.  And  we  won't 
worry  about  the  house  till  the  time  comes,  anyhow.  Le'  's 
see  what  the  Good  Book  says  to  comfort  us,"  he  added, 
with  a  hopeful  smile. 

Unfortunately,  the  "  Timberville  Gazette "  had  not 
reached  this  benighted  family;  and  not  having  the 
Judge's  Address  to  read,  Mr.  Williams  read  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount. 

Fessenden's  listened  with  the  rest.  And  a  light,  not  of 
the  understanding,  but  of  the  spirit,  shone  upon  him. 
His  intellect  was  too   feeble,  I  think,  to  draw  any  very 


124  FESSENDEN'S. 

keen  comparison  between  those  houses  where  the  "Tim- 
berville  Gazette  "  was  taken  and  read  that  evening  and 
this  lowly  abode,  —  between  the  rich  there,  who  had  shut 
their  proud,  prosperous  doors  against  him,  and  these  poor 
servants  of  the  Lord,  who  had  taken  him  in  and  comforted 
him,  though  the  hour  was  nigh,  when  they,  too,  were  to  be 
driven  forth  shelterless  in  the  wintry  storms.  The  deep 
and  affecting  suggest iveness  of  that  wide  contrast  his  mind 
was,  no  doubt,  too  weak  thoroughly  to  appreciate.  Yet 
something  his  heart  felt,  and  something  his  soul  perceived; 
his  pale  and  vacant  face  was  illumined ;'  and  at  the  close 
of  the  reading  he  rose  up.  The  coarse  wrappings  of  his 
body  fell  away ;  and  the  muffling  ignorance,  the  swaddling 
dulness,  wherein  that  divine  infant,  the  bright  immortal 
spirit,  was  confined,  seemed  also  to  fall  off.  He  lifted  up 
his  hands,  spreading  them  as  if  dispensing  blessings  ;  and 
his  countenance  had  a  vague,  smiling  wonder  in  it,  almost 
beautiful,  and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  thrilled  the  ear. 

"  Praise  the  Lord  !  praise  the  Lord  !  for  he  will  provide! 

"  Be  comforted  !  for  ye  are  the  children  of  the  Lord  ! 

"  Be  glad  !  be  glad  !  for  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  is  here  ! 

"  Don't  you  see  him  1  don't  you  see  him  *?  There ! 
there  ! "  he  cried,  pointing,  with  an  earnestness  and  radi- 
ance of  look  which  filled  all  who  saw  him  with  astonish- 
ment. They  turned  to  gaze,  as  if  really  expecting  to 
behold  the  vision ;  then  fixed  their  eyes  again  on  the 
stranger, 

"  You  '11  be  taken  care  of,  the  Angel  says.  Even  they 
that  hate  you  shall  do  you  good.  The  mercy  you  have 
shown,  Christ  will  show  to  you." 

Having  uttered  these  sentences  at  intervals,  in  a  loud 
voice,  the  speaker  gave  a  start,  turned  as  if  bewildered, 
and  sat  down  again. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.     A  hush  of  awe  suspended  the 


FESSENDEN'S.  125 

breath  of  the  listeners.  Then  a  smile  of  fervent  emotion 
lighted  up  like  daybreak  the  negro's  dark  visage,  and  his 
joy  broke  forth  in  song.  The  others  joined  him,  filling  the 
house  with  the  jubilee  of  their  wild  and  mellow  voices. 

**  A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 

Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 
And  sued  so  humbly  for  relief 
That  I  could  never  answer  nay." 

And  so  the  fair  fame  of  Gingerford,  as  we  said  before, 
was  saved  from  blight.  The  beggar-boy  awakes  this  Sun- 
day morning,  not  in  the  blaze  of  Eternity,  but  in  that 
dim  nook  of  the  domain  of  Time,  Nigger  Williams's  hut. 
He  made  his  couch,  not  on  the  freezing  ground,  but  in  a 
bunk  of  the  low-roofed  garret.  His  steaming  clothes  had 
been  taken  off,  a  dry  shirt  had  been  given  him,  and  he  had 
Joe  for  a  bedfellow. 

"  Hug  him  tight,  Joey  dear  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  as 
she  carried  away  the  candle.  "  Snug  up  close,  and  keep 
him  warm  ! " 

"  I  will !  "  cried  Joe,  as  affectionate  as  he  was  roguish  ; 
and  Fessenden's  never  slept  better  than  he  did  that  night, 
with  the  tempest  singing  his  lullaby,  and  the  arms  of  the 
loving  negro  boy  about  him. 

In  the  morning  he  found  his  clothes  ready  to  put  on. 
They  had  been  carefully  dried ;  and  the  old  woman  had 
got  up  early  and  taken  a  few  needful  stitches  in  them. 

"  It  's  Sunday,  granny,"  Creshy  reminded  her,  to  see 
what  she  would  say. 

"  A'n't  no  use  lettV  sich  holes  as  these  'ere  go,  if  't  is 
Sunday  !  "  replied  the  old  woman.  "  Hope  I  never  sh'll 
ketch  you  a  doin'  nuffin'  wus  !  A'n't  we  told  to  help  our 
neighbor's  sheep  out  o'  the  ditch  on  the  Lord's  day  1  An' 
which  is  mos'  consequence,  I  'd  like  to  know,  the  neigh- 
bor's sheep,  or  the  neighbor  hissclf?" 


126  FESSENDEN'S.  -- 

"  But  his  clothes  a'n't  him,"  said  Creshy. 

"  S'pose  I  do'no'  that  1  But  what 's  a  sheep  for,  if  't 
a'n't  for  its  wool  to  make  the  clo'es  1  Then,  to  look  arter 
the  sheep  that  makes  the  clo'es,  and  not  look  arter  the 
clo'es  arter  they  're  made,  that 's  a  mis'ble  notion  !  " 

"  But  you  can  mend  the  clothes  any  day." 

"  Could  I  mend  'em  yis'day,  when  I  did  n't  have  'em  to 
mend  1  or  las'  night,  when  they  was  wringin'  wet  ?  Le'  me 
alone,  now,  with  your  nonsense  ! " 

"  But  you  can  mend  them  to-morrow,"  said  the  mis- 
chievous girl,  dehghted  to  puzzle  her  grandmother. 

"  And  let  that  poor  lorn  chile  go  in  rags  over  Sunday, 
freezin'  cold  weather  like  this  1  Guess  I  a'n't  so  ocfeelin', 
—  an'  you  a'n't  nuther,  for  all  you  like  to  tease  your  ole 
granny  so  !  Bless  the  boy,  seems  to  me  he  's  jest  go'n'  to 
bring  us  good  luck.  I  feel  as  though  the  Angel  of  the 
Lord  did  r'a'ly  come  into  the  house  with  him  las'  night  ! 
Wish  I  had  somefin'  r'al  good  for  him  for  his  breakfas' 
now  !  He  '11  be  dreffle  hungry,  that 's  sartin.  Make  a 
rousin'  good  big  Johnnycake,  mammy  ;  and,  Creshy,  you 
stop  botherin',  and  slice  up  them  'ere  taters  for  fryin'." 

Soon  the  odor  of  the  cooking  stole  up  into  the  garret. 
Fessenden's  snuffed  it  with  delighted  senses.  The  feeling 
of  his  garments  dry  and  whole  pleased  him  mightily.  He 
heard  the  call  to  breakfast ;  and  laughing  and  rubbing  his 
eyes  he  followed  Joe  down  the  dark,  uncertain  footing  of 
the  stairs. 

The  family  was  already  huddled  about  the  table.  But 
room  was  reserved  for  their  guest,  and  at  his  appearance 
the  old  patriarch  rose  smilingly  from  his  seat,  pulled  off 
his  cap,  which  it  seemed  he  always  wore,  and  shook  hands 
with  him,  with  the  usual  hospitable  greeting. 

"  Sarvant,  sah  !     Welcome,  sah  !  " 

Fessenden's  was  given  a  seat  by  his  side.     And  the  old 


FESSENDEN'S.  127 

woman  piled  his  plate  with  good  things.  And  he  ate,  and 
was  filled.  For  he  was  by  no  means  dainty,  and  had  not, 
simple  soul !  the  least  prejudice  against  color. 

And  he  was  happy.  The  friendly  black  faces  around 
him,  —  the  cheerful,  sympathetic,  rich-toned  voices,  —  the 
motherly  kindness  of  the  old  woman,  —  the  exquisite 
smiling  politeness  of  the  old  man,  who  got  up  and  shook 
hands  with  him,  on  an  average,  every  half-hour,  —  the 
Bible-reading,  —  the  singing,  —  the  praying,  —  the  ele- 
gance and  condescension  of  Gentleman  Bill,  —  the  pleasant 
looks  and  words  of  the  laughing-eyed  girls,  —  and  the 
irrepressible  merriment  of  Joe,  made  that  a  golden  Sab- 
bath in  the  lad's  life. 

Alas  that  it  should  come  to  this  !  Associate  with  black 
folks  !  how  shocking  !  What  if  he  was  a  —  Fessenden's  1 
was  n't  he  white  1  Where  were  those  finer  tastes  and 
instincts  which  make  you  and  me  shrink  from  persons  of 
color  1  He  rolls  and  tumbles  in  mad  frolic  with  Joe  on 
the  garret  floor,  and  plays  horse  with  him.  He  suffers  his 
hair  to  be  combed  by  the  girls,  and  actually  experiences 
pleasure  at  the  touch  of  their  gentle  hands,  and  feels  a 
vague  wondering  joy  when  they  praise  his  smooth  flaxen 
locks.  In  a  word,  he  is  so  weak  as  to  wish  that  good  Mr. 
WiUiams  was  his  father,  and  this  delightful  hut  his  home  ! 

And  so  he  spends  his  Sunday.  The  family  does  not 
attend  public  worship.  They  used  to,  when  the  old  meet- 
ing-house was  standing,  and  the  old  minister  was  alive. 
But  they  do  not  feel  at  ease  in  the  new  edifice,  and  the 
smart  young  preacher  is  too  smart  for  them.  His  rhetoric 
is  like  the  cold  carving  and  frescos,  —  very  fine,  very 
admirable,  no  doubt  ;  but  it  has  no  warmth  in  it  for 
them ;  it  is  foreign  to  their  common  daily  lives ;  it  comes 
not  near  the  hopes  and  fears  and  sufferings  of  their  humble 
hearts.     Here  religion,  which  too  long  suff'ered  abasement, 


128  FESSENDEN'S. 

is  exalted.  It  is  highly  respectable.  It  shows  culture  ;  it 
has  the  tone  of  society.  It  is  worth  while  coming  hither 
of  a  Sunday  morning,  if  only  to  hear  the  organ  and  see  the 
fashions.  Yet  it  can  hardly  be  expected  that  such  crea- 
tures as  the  Williamses  should  appreciate  the  privilege  of 
hearing  and  beholding  from  the  enclosure  which  has  been 
properly  set  off  for  their  class,  —  the  colored  people's  pew. 

But  Fessenden's  might  have  done  better,  one  would  say, 
than  to  stay  at  home  with  them.  Why  did  n't  he  go  to 
church,  and  be  somebody  1  He  would  not  have  been  put 
into  the  niggers'  pew.  As  for  his  clothes,  which  might 
have  been  objected  to  by  worldly  people,  who  would  have 
thought  of  them,  or  of  anything  else  but  his  immortal  soul, 
in  the  house  of  God  %  Of  course,  there  were  no  respecters 
of  persons  there,  —  none  to  say  to  a  rich  Frisbie,  or  an 
eloquent  Gingerford,  "  Sit  thou,  here,  in  a  good  place," 
and  to  a  ragged  Fessenden's,  "  Stand  thou  there." 

But  perhaps  the  less  said  on  the  subject  the  better. 
Pass  over  that  golden  Sunday  in  the  lad's  life.  Alas,  when 
will  he  ever  have  such  another  %  For  here  it  is  Monday 
morning,  and  the  house  is  to  be  torn  down. 


V. 

A   TREMENDOUS   JOKE. 

There  seems  to  be  no  mistake  about  it.  Mr.  Frisbie 
has  come  over  early,  driven  in  his  light  open  carriage  by 
his  man  Stephen,  to  see  that  the  niggers  are  out.  And 
yonder  come  the  workmen,  to  begin  the  work  of  demolition. 

But  the  niggers  are  not  out ;  not  an  article  of  furniture 
has  been  removed. 


FESSENDEN'S.  129 

"  You  see,  sir,"  —  Mr.  Williams  calmly  represents  the 
case  to  his  landlord,  as  he  sits  in  his  carriage,  —  "  it  has 
been  impossible.  We  shall  certainly  go,  just  as  soon  as 
we  can  get  another  house  anywhere  in  town  —  " 

**  I  don't  w^ant  you  to  get  another  house  in  town,"  inter- 
rupts the  full-blooded,  red-faced  Frisbie.  "  We  have  had 
enough  of  you.  You  have  had  fair  warning.  Now  out 
with  your  traps,  and  off  with  you  !  " 

"  I  trust,  at  least,  sir,  you  will  give  us  another 
week  —  " 

"  Not  an  hour  !  " 

"  One  day,"  remonstrates  the  mild  negro ;  ''  I  don't* 
think  you  will  refuse  us  that." 

"  Not  a  minute  !  "  exclaims  the  firm  Frisbie.  "  I  've 
borne  with  you  long  enough.  Fact  is,  we  have  got  tired 
of  niggers  in  this  town.  I  bought  the  house  wdth  you  in 
it,  or  you  never  w^ould  have  got  in.  Now  it  is  coming 
dowm.  Call  out  your  folks,  and  save  your  stuff,  if  you  're 
going  to.  —  Good  morning,  Adsly,"  to  the  master  carpen- 
ter. "  Go  to  w^ork  with  your  fellow^s.  Guess  they  '11  be 
glad  to  get  out  by  the  time  you  've  rij^ped  the  roof  off." 

Mr.  Williams  retires,  disheartened,  his  visage  surcharged 
wnth  trouble.  For  this  wretched  dw^elling  w^as  his  home, 
and  dear  to  him.  It  was  the  centre  of  his  w^orld.  Around 
it  all  the  humble  hopes  and  pleasures  of  the  man  had  clus- 
tered for  years.  When  weary  with  the  long  day's  heavy 
toil,  here  he  had  found  rest.  To  this  spot  his  spirit,  sor- 
row-laden, had  ever  turned  with  gratitude  and  yearning. 
And  here  he  had  found  shelter,  here  he  had  found  love  and 
comfort,  the  lonely,  despised  man.  Even  care  and  giief 
had  contributed  to  strengthen  the  hold  of  his  heart  u]>on 
this  soil.  Here  had  died  the  only  child  he  had  ever  lost ; 
and  in  the  old  burying-ground,  over  the  hill  yonder,  it  was 
buried.  Under  this  mean  roof  he  had  laid  his  soitows 
6*  I 


130  FESSENDEN'S. 

before  the  Lord,  he  had  wrestled  with  the  Lord  in  prayer, 
and  his  burdens  had  been  taken  from  him,  and  light  and 
gladness  had  been  poured  upon  his  soul.  0  ye  proud  ! 
do  you  think  that  happiness  dwells  only  in  high  places,  or 
that  these  lowly  homes  are  not  dear  to  the  poor  1 

But  now  this  sole  haven  of  the  negro  and  his  family  was 
to  be  destroyed.  Cruel  cold  blew  the  December  wind,  that 
wintry  morning.  And  the  gusts  of  the  landlord's  temper 
were  equally  pitiless. 

Gentleman  Bill,  full  of  confidence  in  his  powers  of  per- 
suasion, advances,  to  add  the  weight  of  his  respectability 
to  his  parents'  remonstrance. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Frisbie,"  — politely  lifting  his  hat. 

"  Hey  1 "  says  Frisbie,  sarcastic.  —  "  Look  at  his  inso- 
lence, Stephen  !  " 

"I  sincerely  trust,  sir,"  begins  Bill,  "that  you  will 
reconsider  your  determination,  sir  —  " 

"  Shall  I  fetch  him  a  cut  with  the  hosswhip  1 "  whis- 
pers Stephen,  loud  enough  for  the  stalwart  young  black  to 
hear. 

"  You  can  fetch  him  a  cut  with  the  hosswhip,  if  you 
like,"  Bill  answers  for  Mr.  Frisbie,  with  fire  blazing  up  in 
his  polite  face.  "  But,  sir,  in  case  you  do,  sir,  I  shall  take 
it  upon  myself  to  teach  you  better  manners  than  to  insult 
a  gentleman  conferring  with  your  master,  sir  !  " 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  roared  Mr.  Frisbie.  "You've  got  it, 
Stephen ! " 

The  whip  trembled  in  Stephen's  angry  hand,  but  the 
strapping  young  negro  looked  so  cool  and  wicked,  standing 
there,  that  he  wisely  forbore  to  strike. 

"I  am  sure,  sir,"  Bill  addresses  the  landlord,  "you  are 
too  humane  a  person  —  " 

"  No,  I  a' n't,"  says  the  florid  Frisbie.  "  I  know  what 
you  're  going  to  say ;  but  it  's  no  use.     You  can't  work 


FESSENDEN'S.  131 

upon  my  feelings;  I  a'n't  one  of  your  soft  kind.  Drive 
up  to  the  door,  Stephen." 

Stephen  is  very  glad  to  start  the  horse  suddenly  and 
graze  Gentleman  Bill's  knee  v«^ith  the  wheel-hub.  Bill 
steps  back  a  pace,  and  follows  him  with  the  smiting  look 
of  one  who  treasures  up  wrath.  You  had  better  be  careful, 
Stephen,  let  me  tell  you  ! 

Joe  stands  holding  the  door  open,  and  Mr.  Frisbie  looks 
in.  There,  to  his  astonishment,  he  sees  the  women  washing 
clothes  as  unconcernedly  as  if  nothing  unusual  was  about 
to  occur.     He  jumps  to  the  ground,  heated  with  passion. 

"  Ho,  here  ! "  he  shouts  in  at  the  door  ;  "  don't  you  see 
the  house  is  coming  down  1 " 

Upon  which  the  deaf  old  grandfather  rises  in  his  corner, 
and  pulls  off  his  cap,  with  the  usual  salutation,  "  Sarvant, 
sah,"  etc.,  and,  sitting  down  again,  relapses  into  a  doze 
immediately. 

Frisbie  is  furious.  "What  you  'bout  here?"  he  cries, 
in  an  alarming  voice. 

"  Bless  you,  sir,"  answers  the  old  woman  over  a  tub, 
"  don't  you  see  1  We  're  doon'  a  little  washin',  sir.  Did  n't 
yon  never  see  nobody  wash  afore  1"  And  she  proceeds 
with  her  rubbing. 

"  The  house  will  be  tumbling  on  you  in  ten  minutes !  " 

"  You  think  so  1  Now  I  don't,  Mr.  Frisbie  !  This  'ere 
house  a'n't  go'n'  to  tumble  down  this  mornin',  I  know. 
The  Lord  '11  look  out  for  that,  I  guess.  Look  o'  these  'ere 
children  !  look  o'  me  !  look  o'  my  ole  father  there,  more  'n 
a  hundred  year  ole  !  What 's  a  go'n'  to  'come  on  us  all,  if 
you  pull  the  house  down  1  Can't  git  another  right  away  ; 
no  team  to  haul  our  things  off  with  ;  an'  how  'n  the  world 
we  can  do  'thout  no  house  this  winter,  I  can't  see.  So  I  've 
jes'  concluded  to  trust  the  Lord,  an'  git  out  my  washin'." 
Rub,  rub,  rub ! 


132  FESSENDEN'S. 

Frisbie  grows  purple.     "  Are  you  fools  1 "  he  inquires. 

"  Yes,  /  am  !  I  'm  Fessenden's."  And  the  honest  star- 
ing youth  comes  forward  to  see  what  is  wanted. 

This  unexpected  response  rather  pricks  the  wind-bag  of 
the  man's  zeal.  He  looks  curiously  at  the  boy,  who  follows 
him  out  of  the  house. 

"  Stephen,  did  you  ever  see  that  fellow  before  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he 's  the  one  come  to  our  house  Saturday 
night,  and  I  showed  round  to  the  Judge's." 

"Are  you  the  fellow]" 

"  Yes,"  says  Fessenden's.  "  There  would  n't  any  of  you 
let  me  into  your  houses,  neither  !  " 

"  Would  n't  the  people  I  sent  you  to  let  you  in  ] " 

"No!" 

"  Hear  that,  Stephen  !  your  philanthropical  Gingerford  ! 
And  w^hat  did  you  do  1 " 

"  I  did  n't  do  nothin',  —  only  laid  down  to  die,  I  did." 

"  But  you  did  n't  die,  did  you  1 " 

"  No !     This  man  he  come  along,  and  brought  me  here." 

"  Here  1  to  the  niggers  ? " 

"  Yes  !  You  would  n't  have  me,  so  they  took  me,  and 
dried  me,  and  fed  me,  —  good  folks,  niggers  !  "  Fessen- 
den's bore  this  simple  testimony. 

What  is  it  makes  the  Frisbie  color  heighten  so  ]  Is  it 
Gentleman  Bill's  quiet  smile,  as  he  stands  by  and  hears 
this  conversation  ? 

"  And  you  have  been  here  ever  since  1 "  says  the  man, 
in  a  humbler  ke}-,  and  with  a  milder  look,  than  before. 

"  Yes !     It 's  a  re'l  good  place  !  "  says  the  youth. 

"  But  a'n't  you  ashamed  to  live  with  niggers  1 " 

"  Ashamed  ?  W^hat  for  1  Nobod}'  else  was  good  to  me. 
But  they  was  good  to  me.     I  a'n't  ashamed." 

The  Frisbie  color  heightens  more  and  more.  He  looks 
at    that   wretched    dwelling,  —  he   glances    aside    at    Mr. 


FESSENDEN'S.  133 

Williams,  that  coal-black  Christian,  of  sad  and  resigned 
demeanor,  waiting  ruefully  to  see  the  roof  torn  off,  —  the 
only  roof  that  had  afforded  shelter  to  the  perishing  out- 
cast. Mr.  Frisbie  is  not  one  of  the  "  soft  kind,"  but 
he  feels  the  prick  of  conscience  in  his  heart. 

''Why  didn't  you  go  to  the  poorhouse '?  Didn't  any- 
body tell  you  to  ]  " 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  they  said.  But  nobody  showed  me 
the  way,  and  I  could  n't  find  it." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ]     Who  are  you  1 " 

"  Fessenden's." 

"  Who  is  Fessenden  1 " 

"  The  man  that  owns  me.  But  he  whipped  me  and  shet 
m*e  up,  and  I  would  n't  stay." 

"  Where  does  he  live  1 " 

"  Don't  know.     Away  off." 

"  You  'd  better  go  back  to  him,  had  n't  you  1  " 

"  No  !  I  like  these  folks.  Best  folks  I  ever  seen ! " 
avers  the  earnest  youth. 

Flush  and  confusion  are  in  the  rich  man's  face.  He 
turns  up  an  uneasy  glance  at  Adsly's  men,  already  on  the 
roof ;  then  coughs,  and  says  to  Stephen,  — 

"  This  is  interesting  !  " 

"  Very,"  says  Stephen. 

"  Don't  you  remember,  /  was  going  to  make  some  pro- 
vision for  this  fellow,  —  I  'd  have  seen  him  safe  in  the  alms- 
house, if  nothing  more,  — but  you  suggested  Gingerford's." 

"  I  supposed  Gingerford  woiild  be  delighted  to  take  him 
in,"  grins  Stephen. 

"  Instead  of  that,  he  turns  him  out  in  the  storm  !  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  sham  philanthropy  1  By  George  !  " 
cries  Frisbie,  in  his  indignation  against  the  Judge,  "there's 
more  real  philanthropy  in  these  niggers  "  —  checking  him- 
self, and  glancing  again  at  the  workmen  on  the  roof. 


.134  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  What  's  philanthropy  1 "  asked  Fessenden's.  "  Is  that 
what  you  're  tearin'  their  house  down  for  1     I  'm  sorry  !  " 

Frisbie  is  flustered.  He  is  ashamed  of  appearing  "■  soft." 
He  wishes  heartily  to  be  well  rid  of  the  niggers.  But  some- 
thing in  his  own  heart  rebels  against  the  course  he  has 
taken  to  eject  them. 

*'  Just  hold  on  there  a  minute,  Adsly  !  " 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  says  Adsly.     And  the  work  stops. 

"Now  what  do  I  do  this  for?"  exclaims  Frisbie,  vexed 
at  himself  the  instant  he  has  spoken.  And  he  frowns,  and 
blows  his  nose  furiously.  ''  It 's  because  I  am  too  good- 
natured  altogether !  " 

"  No,  no,  sir,  —  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  says  Mr.  Wil- 
liams, his  heart  all  aglow  with  gi'atitude.  "  To  be  kind 
and  merciful  to  the  poor,  that  is  n't  to  be  too  good-natured, 
sir ! " 

"  Well,  well !  I  a'n't  one  of  your  milk-and-water  sort. 
Look  at  such  a  man  as  Gingerford,  for  example  !  But  I 
guess,  come  case  in  hand,  you  '11  find  as  much  genuine  hu- 
manity in  me,  Adsly,  as  in  them  that  profess  so  much. 
Wait  till  to-morrow  before  you  knock  the  old  shell  to 
pieces.  I  '11  give  'em  another  day.  And  in  the  mean 
time,  boy,"  turning  to  Fessenden's,  "you  must  find  you 
another  home.  Either  go  back  to  your  guardian,  or  I  '11 
send  you  over  to  the  almshouse.  These  people  can't  keep 
you,  for  they  '11  have  no  house  in  these  parts  to  keep  them- 
selves in." 

"SoV  says  Fessenden's.  "They  kep'  me  when  they 
had  a  house,  and  I  '11  stay  with  them  when  they  have  n't 
got  any." 

Something  in  the  case  of  this  unfortunate  stripling 
interests  Frisbie.  His  devotion  to  his  new  friends  is  so 
sincere,  and  so  simply  expressed,  that  the  robust,  well- 
fed  man  is  almost  touched  by  it. 


FESSENDEN-S.  135 

"  I  vow,  it 's  a  queer  case,  Stephen  !  What  do  you 
think  of  itr' 

*'  I  think  —  "  says  the  joker. 

"  What  do  you  think  %     Out  with  it !  " 

"  You  own  that  vacant  lot  opposite  Gingerford's  1 " 

"  Yes ;  what  of  that  1 " 

"  I  think,  then,  instead  of  pulHng  the  house  down,  I  'd 
just  move  it  over  there,  niggers  and  all  —  " 

"And  set  it  opposite  the  Judge's!"  exclaims  Frisbie, 
catching  gleefully  at  the  idea. 

"Exactly,"  says  Stephen;  "and  give  him  enough  of 
niggers  for  one  while." 

"  I  'U  do  it !  —  Adsly  !  Adsly  !  See  here,  Adsly  !  Do 
you  suppose  this  old  box  can  be  moved?" 

"  I  guess  so.  'T  a'n't  very  large.  Ruther  think  the 
frame  '11  hold  together." 

"  Will  you  undertake  the  job  *? " 

"  Wal,  I  never  moved  a  house.  There 's  Cap'en  Slade, 
he  moves  houses.  He's  got  all  the  tackle  for  it,  and  I 
ha'n't.  I  suppose  I  can  git  him,  if  you  want  me  to  see  to 
the  job." 

Agreed  !  It  did.  not  take  Frisbie  long  to  decide.  It 
was  such  a  tremendous  joke  !  A  nest  of  niggers  under  the 
dainty  Gingerford  nose !  ho,  ho  !  Whip  up,  Stephen ! 
And  the  red  and  puffy  face,  redder  and  puffier  still  with 
immense  fun,  rode  off. 


VI. 

THE    REMOVAL. 

Adsly  and  his  men  disappeared  also,  to  return  with 
Cap'en  Slade  and  his  tackle  on  the  morrow.  Then  Joe 
began  to  dance  and  scream  like  a  little  devil. 


136  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  Have  a  ride  !  have  a  ride  !  0  mammy  !  they  're 
gunter  snake  th'  ole  house  through  the  village  to-morrer, 
an'  we  're  all  gunter  have  a  ride  !  free  gratis  for  nothin'  ! 
'thout  payin'  for  't  neither  !     A'n't  we,  Bill  1 " 

Mrs.  Williams  sits  right  down,  overcome  by  the  sur- 
prise. 

"  Now  I  want  to  know  if  that  'ere  's  so  1 " 

"  That 's  what 't  looks  like  now,"  says  Mr.  Williams. 
"  We  're  go  in'  to  be  sot  opposite  Mr.  Gingerford's." 

"  'Ristocratic  ! "  cries  Joe,  putting  on  airs.  "  That  's 
what '11  tickle  Bill!" 

"  0,  laws  ! "  exclaims  Mrs.  Williams,  with  humorous 
sadness,  — "  what  a  show  th'  ole  cabin  '11  make,  stuck 
down  there  'mongst  all  them  fine  housen ! " 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  quite  like  the  notion,"  says  her  hus- 
band, with  a  good-natured  expansion  of  his  serious  features. 
"  I  'm  'fraid  we  sha'  n't  be  welcome  neighbors  down  there. 
'T  a'n't  so  much  out  o'  kindness  to  us  as  it  is  out  o'  spite 
to  the  Gingerfords,  that  the  house  is  to  be  moved  instid  o' 
tore  down." 

"  That 's  the  glory  of  the  Lord !  Even  the  wrath  of 
man  shall  praise  him  !  "  utters  the  old  grandmother,  de- 
voutly. 

"  Won't  it  be  jimmy  1 "  crows  Joe.  "  He  's  a  jolly  ole 
brick,  that  Frisbie  !  I  'm  a-gunter  set  straddle  on  the 
ridge-pole  an'  carry  a  flag.     Hooray  ! " 

"■'  I  consider  that  the  situation  will  be  very  much  prefer- 
able to  this,"  observes  Gentleman  Bill,  polishing  his  hat 
with  his  coat-sleeve.  "  Better  quarter  of  the  town;  more 
central ;  eligible  locality  for  establishing  a  tailor-shop." 

"  Legible  comicality  for  stablin'  a  shailor-top  ! "  stam- 
mers Joe,  mimicking  his  brother. 

Upon  which  Bill  —  as  he  sometimes  did,  when  excited  — 
relapsed  into  the  vulgar  but  expressive  idiom  of  the  fam- 


FESSENDEN'S.  137 

ily.  "  Shet  yer  head,  can't  ye  1 "  And  he  hfted  a  hand 
with  intent  to  clap  it  smartly  upon  the  part  the  occlusion 
of  which  was  desirable. 

Joe  shrieked  and  fled. 

"  No  quarrellin'  on  a  'casion  like  this  ! "  interposes  the 
old  woman,  covering  the  boy's  retreat.  "  This  'ere  's  a 
time  for  joy  and  thanks,  an'  nuffin'  else.  Bless  the  Lord, 
I  knowed  he  'd  keep  an  eye  on  to  th'  ole  house.  Did  n't 
I  tell  ye  that  boy  'd  bring  us  good  luck  1  It 's  all  on  his 
account  the  house  a'n't  tore  down,  an'  I  consider  it  a 
mighty  Providence  from  fust  to  last.  Was  n't  I  right, 
when  I  said  I  guessed  I  'd  have  faith,  an'  git  the  washin' 
out  1     Bless  the  Lord,  I  could  cry  !  " 

And  cry  she  did,  with  a  fulness  of  heart  which,  I  think, 
might  possibly  have  convinced  even  the  jocund  Frisbie 
that  there  was  something  better  than  an  old,  worn-out, 
spiteful  jest  in  the  resolution  he  had  taken  to  have  the 
house  moved,  instead  of  razed. 

And  now  the  deaf  old  patriarch  in  the  corner  became 
suddenly  aware  that  something  exciting  was  going  for- 
ward ;  but  being  unable  clearly  to  comprehend  what,  and 
chancing  to  see  Fessenden's  coming  in,  he  gave  expression 
to  his  exuberant  emotions  by  rising,  and  shaking  the  lad's 
passive  hand,  with  the  usual  highly  polite  salutation. 

"  Tell  him  we  're  all  a-gunter  have  a  ride,"  said  Joe. 

But  as  Fessenden's  could  n't  tell  him  loud  enough,  Joe 
screamed  the  news. 

"  Say  '?  "  asked  the  old  man,  raising  a  feeble  hand  to  his 
ear,  and  stooping  and  smiling. 

"  Put  th'  ole  house  on  wheels,  an'  dror  it ! "  shrieked 
Joe. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  chuckled  the  old  man.  "  I  remember  ! 
Six  hills  in  a  row.  Busters  !  "  —  looking  wonderfully 
knowing,  and   with  feeble  forefinger  raised,  nodding  and 


138  FESSENDEN-S. 

■winking  at  his  great-grandchild,  —  as  it  were  across  the 
dim  gulf  of  a  hundred  years  which  divided  the  gleeful  boy- 
hood of  Joe  from  the  second  childhood  of  the  ancient 
dreamer. 

The  next  day  came  Adsly  and  his  men  again,  with 
Cap'en  Slade  and  his  tackle,  and  several  yokes  of  oxen 
with  drivers.  Levers  and  screws  moved  the  house  from 
its  foundations,  and  it  was  launched  upon  rollers.  Then, 
progress  !  Then,  sensation  in  Timberville  !  Some  said  it 
was  Noah's  ark  sailing  down  the  street.  The  household 
furniture  of  the  patriarch  was  mostly  left  on  board  the 
antique  craft,  but  Noah  and  his  family  followed  on  foot. 
They  took  their  live  stock  with  them,  —  cow  and  calf,  and 
poultry  and  pig.  Joe  and  his  great-grandfather  carried 
each  a  pair  of  pullets  in  their  hands.  Gentleman  Bill 
drove  the  pig,  with  a  rope  tied  to  his  (piggy's)  leg.  Mr. 
Williams  transported  more  poultry,  —  turkeys  and  hens, 
in  two  great  flopping  clusters,  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
with  their  heads  down.  The  w^omen  bore  crockery  and* 
other  frangible  articles,  and  helped  Fessenden's  drive  the 
cow.  A  picturesque  procession,  not  noiseless  !  The  bosses 
shouted  to  the  men,  the  drivers  shouted  to  the  oxen,  loud 
groaned  the  beams  of  the  ark,  the  cow  lowed,  the  calf 
bawled,  great  was  the  sqiiawking  and  squealing ! 

Gentleman  Bill  was  sick  of  the  business  before  they  had 
gone  half-way.  He  wished  he  had  stayed  in  the  shop,  in- 
stead of  coming  over  to  help  the  family,  and  make  himself 
ridiculous.  There  was  not  much  pleasure  in  driving  that 
stout  young  porker.  Many  a  sharp  jerk  lamed  the  hand 
that  held  the  rope  that  restrained  the  leg  that  piggy 
wanted  to  run  with.  Besides  (as  I  believe  swine  and 
some  other  folks  invariably  do  under  the  like  circum- 
stances), piggy  always  tried  to  run  in  the  wrong  direction. 
To  add  to  Gentleman's  Bill's  annoyance,  spectators  soon 


FESSENDEN'S.  139 

became  numerous,  and  witty  suggestions  were  not  want- 
ing. 

*'  Take  him  up  in  your  arms,"  said  somebody. 

"  Take  advantage  of  his  contrariness,  and  drive  him 
t'  other  way,"  said  somebody  else. 

"  Ride  him,"  proposed  a  third. 

"  Make  a  whistle  of  his  tail,  an'  blow  it,  an'  he  '11  foller 
ye  !  "  screamed  a  bright  school-boy. 

"  Stick  some  of  yer  tailor's  needles  into  him  !  "  "Sew 
him  up  in  a  sack,  and  shoulder  him  ! "  "  Take  up  his 
hind-legs,  and  push  him  like  a  wheelbarrer ! "  And  so 
forth,  and  so  forth,  till  Bill  was  in  a  fearful  sweat  and 
rage,  partly  with  the  pig,  but  chiefly  with  the  uncivil 
multitude. 

*'  Ruther  carry  me  on  your  back,  some  rainy  night,  had 
n't  ye  1 "  said  Fessenden's,  in  all  simplicity,  perceiving  his 
distress. 

"  You  did  n't  excruciate  my  wrist  so  like  time  !  " 
groaned  Bill.  And  what  was  more,  darkness  covered  that 
other  memorable  journey. 

As  for  Joe,  he  liked  it.  Though  he  was  not  allowed  to 
ride  the  ridge-pole  and  wave  a  flag  through  the  village,  as 
he  proposed,  he  had  plenty  of  fun  on  foot.  He  went 
swinging  his  chickens,  and  frequently  pinching  them  to 
make  them  musical.  The  laughter  of  the  lookers-on  did  n't 
trouble  him  in  the  least ;  for  he  could  laugh  louder  than 
any.  But  his  sisters  were  ashamed,  and  Mr.  Williams 
looked  grave  ;  for  they  were,  actually,  human  !  and  I  sup- 
pose they  did  not  like  to  be  jeered  at,  and  called  a  swarm 
of  niggers,  any  more  than  you  or  I  would. 

So  the  journey  was  accomplished  ;  and  the  stupendous 
joke  of  Frisbie's  was  achieved.  Conceive  Mrs.  Gingerford's 
wonder,  when  she  beheld  the  ark  approaching !  Fancy 
her  feelings,  when  she  saw  it  towed  up  and    moored   in 


140  FESSENDEN'S. 

front  of  her  own  door,  —  the  whole  tribe  of  Noah,  lowing 
cow,  bawling  calf,  squawking  poultry,  and  squealing  pig, 
and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  accompanying !  This,  then, 
was  the  meaning  of  the  masons  at  w^ork  over  there  since 
yesterday.  They  had  been  preparing  the  new  foundations 
on  which  the  old  house  was  to  rest.  So  the  stunning  truth 
broke  upon  her  :  niggers  for  neighbors !  What  had  she 
done  to  merit  such  a  dispensation  1 

What  done,  unhappy  lady]  Your  own  act  has  drawn 
down  upon  you  this  retribution.  You  yourself  have  done 
quite  as  much  towards  bringing  that  queer  craft  alongside 
as  yonder  panting  and  lolling  oxen.  They  are  but  the 
brute  instruments,  while  you  have  been  a  moral  agent  in 
the  matter.  One  word,  uttered  by  you  three  nights  ago, 
has  had  the  terrible  magic  in  it  to  summon  forth  from  the 
mysterious  womb  of  events  this  extraordinary  procession. 
Had  but  a  different  word  been  spoken,  it  would  have 
proved  equally  magical,  though  we  might  never  have 
known  it;  that  breath  by  your  delicate  lips  would  have 
blown  back  these  horrible  shadows,  and  instead  of  all  this 
din  and  confusion  of  house-hauling,  w^e  should  have  had 
silence  this  day  in  the  streets  of  Timberville.  You  don't 
see  it  ]  In  plain  phrase,  then,  understand  :  you  took  not 
in  the  stranger  at  your  gate  ;  but  he  found  refuge  with 
these  blacks,  and  because  they  showed  mercy  unto  him 
the  sword  of  Frisbie's  wrath  was  turned  aside  from  them, 
and,  edged  by  Stephen's  witty  jest,  directed  against  you 
and  yours.  Hence  this  interesting  scene  which  you  look 
down  upon  from  your  windows,  at  the  beautiful  hour  of 
sunset,  wliich  you  love.  And,  0,  to  think  of  it  !  between 
your  chamber  and  those  golden  sunsets  that  negro-hut 
and  those  negroes  will  always  be  henceforth  ! 

But  we  will  not  mock  at  your  calamity.  You  did  pre- 
cisely what  any  of  us  would  have  been  only  too  apt  to  do 


FESSENDEN'S.  141 

in  your  place.  You  told  the  simple  truth,  when  you  said 
you  did  n't  want  the  ragged  wretch  in  your  house.  And 
what  person  of  refinement,  I  should  like  to  know,  would 
have  wanted  him  1  For,  say  what  you  w^ill,  it  is  a  most 
disagreeable  thing  to  admit  downright  dirty  vagabonds  into 
our  elegant  dwellings.  And  dangerous,  besides  ;  for  they 
might  murder  us  in  the  night,  or  steal  something  !  0, 
we  fastidious  and  fearful  !  where  is  our  charity  ^  where  is 
the  heart  of  trust  1  There  was  of  old  a  Divine  Man,  who 
had  not  where  to  lay  his  head,  —  whom  the  wise  of  those 
days  scoffed  at  as  a  crazy  fellow,  —  whom  respectable  peo- 
ple shunned,  —  who  made  himself  the  companion  of  the 
poor,  the  comforter  of  the  distressed,  the  helper  of  those  in 
trouble,  and  the  healer  of  diseases,  —  who  shrank  neither 
from  the  man  or  woman  of  sin,  nor  from  the  loathsome 
leper,  nor  from  sorrow  and  death  for  our  sakes,  —  whose 
gospel  we  now  profess  to  live  by,  and  — 

But  let  us  not  be  "  soft."  We  are  reasonably  Christian, 
we  hope ;  and  it  shows  low  breeding  to  be  ultra.  (Was  the 
Carpenter's  Son  low-bred  Q 


VIL 

GINGERFORD. 

And  now  the  Judge  rides  home  in  the  dusk  of  the 
December  day.  It  is  still  light  enough,  however,  for  him 
to  see  that  Frisbie's  vacant  lot  has  been  made  an  Ararat 
of ;  and  he  could  hear  the  Noachian  noises,  were  it  never 
so  dark.  The  awful  jest  bursts  upon  him ;  he  hears  the 
screaming  of  the  bomb-shell,  then  the  explosion.  But  the 
mind  of  this  man  is  (so  to  speak)  casemated.  It  is  a 
shock,  —  but  he  never  once  loses  his  self-possession.     His 


142  '  FESSENDEX'S. 

quick  perception  detects  Friend  Frisbie  behind  the  gun ; 
and  he  smiles  with  his  intelhgent,  fine-cut  face.  Shall 
malice  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  the  shot  has  told  ] 
Our  orator  is  too  sagacious  for  that.  There  is  never  any 
use  in  being  angry;  that  is  one  of  his  maxims.  Therefore, 
if  he  feels  any  chagrin,  he  will  smother  it.  If  there  is  a 
storm  within,  the  world  shall  see  only  the  rainbow,  that 
radiant  smile  of  his.  Cool  is  Gingerford  !  He  has  seized 
the  subject  instantly,  and  calculated  all  its  bearings.  He 
is  a  man  to  make  the  best  of  it ;  and  even  the  bitterness 
which  is  in  it  shall,  if  possible,  brew  him  some  wholesome 
drink.  To  school  his  mind  to  patience,  to  practise  daily 
the  philanthropy  he  teachesj  —  this  will  be  much ;  and 
already  his  heart  is  humbled  and  warmed.  And  who 
knows,  —  for  with  all  his  sincerity  and  aspiration  he  has 
an  eye  to  temporal  uses,  —  who  knows  but  this  stumbling- 
block  an  enemy  has  placed  in  his  way  may  prove  the  step- 
ping-stone of  his  ambition  1 

"  What  is  all  this,  James?  "  he  inquires  of  his  son,  who 
comes  out  to  the  gate  to  meet  him. 

"  Frisbie's  meanness  ! "  says  the  young  man,  almost 
choking.     "  And  the  whole  town  is  laughing  at  us  ! " 

"  Laughing  at  us  1  What  have  we  done  1 "  mildly  an- 
swers the  parent.  "  I  tell  you  what,  James,  they  sha'  n't 
laugh  at  us  long.  We  can  live  so  as  to  compel  them  to 
reverence  us ;  and  if  there  is  any  ridicule  attached  to  the 
affair,  it  will  soon  rest  where  it  belongs." 

"  Such  a  sty  stuck  right  down  under  our  noses  !  "  mut- 
ters the  mortified  James. 

"  We  will  make  of  it  an  ornament,"  retorts  the  Judge, 
with  mounting  spirits.  "  Come  with  me,"  —  taking  the 
youth's  arm.  "  My  son,  call  no  human  habitation  a  sty. 
These  people  are  our  brothers,  and  we  will  show  them  the 
kindness  of  brethren." 


FESSENDEN'S.  143 

A  servant  receives  the  horse,  and  Gingerford  and  his 
son  cross  the  street. 

"  Good  evening,  Friend  WilHams  !  So  you  have  con- 
cluded to  come  and  live  neighbor  to  us,  have  you'?" 

Friend  Williams  was  at  the  end  of  the  house,  occupied 
in  improvising  a  cow-shed  under  an  old  apple-tree.  Piggy 
was  already  tied  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  the  hens 
and  turkeys  were  noisily  selecting  their  roosts  in  the 
boughs.  At  sight  of  the  Judge,  whose  displeasure  he 
feared,  the  negi'o  was  embarrassed,  and  hardly  knew  what 
to  say.  But  the  pleasant  greeting  of  the  silver-toned  voice 
reassured  him,  and  he  stopped  his  work  to  frame  his  can- 
did, respectful  answer. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Frisbie  that  concluded.  All  I  had  to  do 
was  to  go  with  the  house  wherever  he  chose  to  move  it." 

"  Well,  he  might  have  done  much  worse  by  you.  You 
have  a  nice  landlord,  a  nice  landlord,  Mr.  Williams.  Mr. 
Frisbie  is  a  very  fine  man." 

It  was  Gingerford's  practice  to  speak  well  of  everybody 
with  whom  he  had  any  personal  relations,  and  especially 
well  of  his  enemies ;  because,  as  he  used  to  say  to  his  son, 
evil  words  commonly  do  more  harm  to  him  who  utters 
them  than  to  those  they  are  designed  to  injure,  while  fair 
and  good  words  are  easily  spoken,  and  are  the  praise  of 
their  author,  if  of  nobody  else  ;  for,  if  the  subject  of  them 
is  a  bad  man,  they  will  not  be  accepted  as  literally  true 
by  any  one  that  knows  him,  but,  on  the  contrary,  they 
will  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of  your  good-nature,  —  or 
who  knows  but  they  may  become  coals  of  fire  upon  the 
head  of  your  enemy,  and  convert  him  into  a  friend  1 

James  had  now  an  opportunity  to  test  the  truth  of  these 
observations.  Was  Mr.  Williams  convinced  that  Frisbie 
was  a  nice  landlord  and  a  fine  man  ^  By  no  means.  But 
that  Judge  Gingerford  was  a  fine  man,  and  a  charitable, 


144  FESSENDEN'S. 

he  believed  more  firmly  than  ever.  Then  there  was  Ste- 
phen standing  by,  —  having,  no  doubt,  been  sent  by  his 
master  to  observe  the  chagrin  of  the  Gingerfords,  and  to 
bring  back  the  report  thereof;  who,  when  he  heard  the 
Judge's  words,  looked  surprised  and  abashed,  and  pres- 
ently stole  away,  himself  discomfited. 

"  I  pray  the  Lord,"  said  Mr.  Williams,  humbly  and 
heartily,  "  you  won't  consider  us  troublesome  neighbors." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  the  Judge  ;  "  and  why  should  I  ] 
You  have  a  good,  honest  reputation.  Friend  Williams ; 
and  I  hear  that  you  are  a  peaceable  and  industrious  family. 
We  ought  to  be  able  to  serve  each  other  in  many  ways. 
What  can  I  do  for  you,  to  begin  with  1  Would  n't  you 
like  to  turn  your  cow  and  calf  into  my  yard  1 " 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  if  I  can  just  as  well  as 
not,"  said  the  grateful  negro.  "  We  had  to  tear  down  the 
shed  and  pig-pen  when  we  moved  the  house,  and  I  ha'n't 
had  time  to  set  'em  up  again." 

"  And  I  imagine  you  have  had  enough  to  do,  for  one 
day.  Let  your  children  drive  the  creatures  through  the 
gate  yonder ;  my  man  will  show  them  the  shed.  Are  you 
a  good  gardener,  Mr.  Williams  1 " 

"  I  've  done  consid'able  at  that  sort  of  work,  sir." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that.  I  have  to  hire  a  good  deal  of  gar- 
dening done.  I  see  we  are  going  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  your  landlord  for  bringing  us  so  near  together. 
And  this  is  your  father  ?  " 

"  My  grandfather,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Williams. 

"  Your  grandfather  1     I  must  shake  hands  with  him." 

"  Sarvant,  sah,"  said  the  old  man,  cap  off,  bowing  and 
smiling  there  in  the  December  twilight. 

"  He  's  deaf  as  can  be,"  said  Mr.  Williams ;  "  you  '11 
have  to  talk  loud,  to  make  him  hear.  He 's  more  'n  a 
hundred  years  old." 


FESSENDEN'S.  145 

"  You  astonish  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  Judge.  "  A  very 
remarkable  old  person  !  I  should  delight  to  converse  with 
him,  —  to  know  what  his  thoughts  are  in  these  new  times, 
and  what  his  memories  are  of  the  past,  which,  I  suppose, 
is  even  now  more  familiar  to  his  mind  than  the  objects  of 
to-day.  God  bless  you,  my  venerable  friend  ! "  shaking 
hands  a  second  time  with  the  ancient  black,  and  speaking 
in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Tankee,  sah,  —  very  kind  ! "  smiled  the  flattered  old 
man.     "  Sarvant,  sah." 

"  'T  is  you  who  are  kind,  to  take  notice  of  young  fel- 
lows like  me,"  pleasantly  replied  the  Judge.  "  Well,  good 
evening:,  friends.  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  know  if  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  for  you.     Ha  !  what  is  this  1 " 

It  was  the  cow  and  calf  coming  back  again,  followed  by 
Joe  and  Fessenden's. 

"  Gorry  !  "  cried  Joe,  "  wa'n't  that  man  mad?  Thought 
he  'd  bite  th'  ole  cow's  tail  off !  " 

"  What  man  1     My  man  1     Dorson  '? "" 

"  Yes,"  said  honest  Fessenden's ;  "  he  said  he  'd  be 
damned  if  he  'd  have  a  nigger's  critters  along  with 
hisn  1 " 

"  Then  we  '11  afford  him  an  early  opportunity  to  be 
damned,"  observed  the  Judge.  "  Drive  them  back  again. 
I  '11  go  with  you.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Williams,"  —  Ginger- 
ford  saw  Dorson  approaching,  and  spoke  loud  enough  for 
him  to  hear  and  understand,  —  "  are  you  accustomed  to 
taking  care  of  horses  ?  I  may  find  it  necessary  to  employ 
some  one  before  long." 

"  Wal,  yes,  sir ;  I  'm  tol'able  handy  about  a  stable," 
replied  the  negro. 

"Hollo,  there  !  "  called  the  man,  somewhat  sullenly, 
"drive  that  cow  back  here!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
't  was  the  boss's  orders  1 " 

7  J 


146  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  Did  tell  him  so  ;  and  he  said  as  how  I  lied,"  said  Joe, 
—  driving  the  animals  back  triumphantly. 

The  Judge  departed  with  his  son,  —  a  thoughtful  and 
aspiring  youth,  who  pondered  deeply  what  he  had  seen 
and  heard,  as  he  walked  by  his  father's  side.  And  Mr. 
Williams,  greatly  relieved  and  gratified  by  the  interview, 
hastened  to  relate  to  his  family  the  good  news.  And  the 
praises  of  Gingerford  were  on  all  their  tongues,  and  in 
their  prayers  that  night  he  was  not  forgotten. 

Three  days  after,  the  Judge's  man  was  dismissed  from 
his  place,  in  consequence  of  difficulties  originating  in  the 
affair  of  the  cow.  The  Judge  had  sought  an  early  oppor- 
tunity to  converse  with  him  on  the  subject. 

"A  negro's  cow,  Mr.  Dorson,"  said  he,  "is  as  good  as 
anybody's  cow ;  and  I  consider  Mr.  Williams  as  good  a 
man  as  you  are." 

The  white  coachman  could  not  stand  that ;  and  the 
result  was  that  Gingerford  had  a  black  coachman  in  a 
few  days.  The  situation  was  offered  to  Mr.  Williams,  and 
very  glad  he  was  to  accept  it. 


VIII. 

gingerpord's  neat  revenge. 

Thus  the  wrath  of  man  continued  to  work  the  welfare 
of  these  humble  Christians.  It  is  reasonable  to  doubt 
whether  the  Judge  was  at  heart  delighted  with  his  new 
neighbors  ;  and  jolly  Mr.  Frisbie  enjoyed  the  joke  some- 
what less,  I  suspect,  than  he  anticipated.  One  party  en- 
joyed it  nevertheless.  It  was  a  serious  and  solid  satisfac- 
tion to  the  Williams  family.  No  member  of  which,  with 
the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Joe,  exhibited  greater  pleasure 


FESSENDEN'S.     ,  147 

at  the  change  in  their  situation  than  the  old  patriarch.  It 
rejuvenated  him.  His  hearing  was  almost  restored.  "  One 
move  more,"  he  said,  "  and  I  shall  be  young  and  spry  ag'in 
as  the  day  I  got  my  freedom,"  —  that  day,  so  many,  many 
years  ago,  which  he  so  well  remembered  !  Well,  the  "one 
move  more  "  was  near ;  and  the  morning  of  a  new  free- 
dom, the  morning  of  a  more  perfect  youth  and  gladness, 
was  not  distant. 

It  was  the  old  man's  delight  to  go  out  and  sit  in  the 
sun  before  the  door  in  the  clear  December  weather,  and 
pull  off  his  cap  to  the  Judge  as  he  passed.  To  get  a 
bow,  and  perhaps  a  kind  word,  from  the  illustrious  Gin- 
gerford,  was  glory  enough  for  one  day,  and  the  old  man 
invariably  hurried  into  the  house  to  tell  of  it. 

But  one  morning  a  singular  thing  occurred.  To  all 
appearances  —  to  the  eyes  of  all  except  one  —  he  remained 
sitting  out  there  in  the  sun  after  the  Judge  had  gone. 
But  Fessenden's  looking  up  suddenly,  and,  staring  at 
vacancy,  cried,  — 
"  Hollo !  " 

"  What,  child  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Williams. 
"  The  old  man  ! "  said  Fessenden's.     "  Comin'  into  the 
door  !     Don't  ye  see  him  1 " 

Nobody  saw  him  but  the  lad  ;  and  of  course  all  were 
astonished  by  his  earnest  announcement  of  the  apparition. 
The  old  grandmother  hastened  to  look  out.  There  sat  her 
father  still,  on  the  bench  by  the  apple-tree,  leaning  against 
the  trunk.  But  the  sight  did  not  satisfy  her.  She  ran 
out  to  him.  The  smile  of  salutation  was  still  on  his  lips, 
which  seemed  just  saying,  "  Sarvant,  sah,"  to  the  Judge. 
But  those  lips  would  never  move  again.  They  were  the 
lips  of  death. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Winiamsr'  asked  the  Judge,  on 
his  return  home  that  afternoon. 


148  ,      FESSENDEN'S. 

"  My  gran'ther  is  dead,  sir;  and  I  don't  know  where  to 
bur  J  him."     This  was  the  negro's  quiet  and  serious  answer. 

"  Dead  ? "  ejaculates  the  Judge.  "  Why,  I  saw  him 
only  this  morning,  and  had  a  smile  from  him  ! " 

"  That  was  his  last  smile,  sir.  You  can  see  it  on  his 
face  yet.     He  went  to  heaven  with  that  smile,  we  trust." 

The  Judge  leaves  everything  and  goes  home  with  his 
coachman.  Sure  enough  !  there  is  the  same  smile  he  saw 
in  the  morning,  frozen  on  the  face  of  the  corpse. 

"  Gently  and  late  death  came  to  him  !  "  says  Ginger- 
ford.  "  Would  we  could  all  die  as  happy  !  There  is  no 
occasion  to  mourn,  my  good  woman." 

"  Bless  the  Lord,  I  don't  mourn  ! "  replied  the  old  ne- 
gress.  "  But  I  'm  so  brimful  of  thanks,  I  must  cry  for  't ! 
He  died  a  blessed  ole  Christian  ;  an'  he  's  gone  straight  to 
glory,  if  there  's  anything  in  the  promises.  He  is  free 
now,  if  he  never  was  afore ;  —  for,  though  they  pretend 
there  a'n't  no  slaves  in  this  'ere  State,  an'  the  law  freed  us 
years  ago,  seems  to  me  there  a'n't  no  re'l  liberty  for  us, 
'cept  this  !  "  She  pointed  at  the  corpse,  then  threw  up 
her  eyes  and  hands  with  an  expression  of  devout  and  joy- 
ful gratitude.  "  He  's  gone  where  there  a'n't  no  predijice 
agin  color,  bless  the  Lord  !  He  's  gone  where  all  them 
that 's  been  washed  with  the  blood  of  Christ  is  all  of  one 
color  in  his  sight !  "  Then  turning  to  the  Judge,  —  "  And 
you  '11  git  your  reward,  sir,  be  sure  o'  that !  " 

"My  reward  V  And  Gingerford,  touched  with  genuine 
emotion,  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  your  reward,"  repeated  the  old  woman,  ten- 
derly arranging  the  sheet  over  the  still  breast  and  folded 
hands  of  the  corpse.  "  For  makin'  his  last  days  happy,  — 
for  makin'  his  last  minutes  happy,  I  may  say.  That  'ere 
smile  was  for  you,  sir.  You  was  kinder  to  him  'n  folks  in 
gin'ral.     He  wa'n't  used  to  't.     An'  he  felt  it.     An'  he  's 


FESSENDEN'S.  149 

gone  to  glory  with  the  news  on  't.  An'  it  '11  he  sot  down 
to  your  credit  there,  in  the  Big  Book." 

Where  was  the  Judge's  eloquence  ?  He  could  not  find 
words  to  frame  a  fitting  reply  to  this  ignorant  black  wo- 
^^an,  whose  emotion  was  so  much  deeper  than  any  fine 
phrases  of  his  could  reach,  and  whose  simple  faith  and 
gratitude  overwhelmed  him  with  the  sudden  conviction  that 
he  had  never  yet  said  anything  to  the  purpose,  in  all  his 
rhetorical  defences  of  the  down-trodden  race.  From  that 
conviction  came  humility.  Out  of  humility  rose  inspira- 
tion. Two  days  later  his  eloquence  found  tongue;  and 
this  was  the  occasion  of  it. 

The  body  of  the  old  negro  was  to  be  buried.  That  he 
should  be  simply  put  into  the  ground,  and  nothing  said, 
any  more  than  if  he  were  a  brute,  did  not  seem  befitting 
the  obsequies  of  so  old  a  man  and  so  faithful  a  Christian. 
The  family  had  natural  feelings  on  that  subject.  They 
wanted  to  have  a  funeral  sermon. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  there  was  to  be  another  funeral 
in  the  village  about  that  time.  The  old  minister,  had  he 
been  living,  might  have  managed  to  attend  both.  But  the 
young  minister  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  The 
loveliest  flower  of  maidenhood  in  his  parish  had  been  cut 
down.  One  of  the  first  famihes  had  been  bereaved.  Day 
and  night  he  must  ponder  and  scribble  to  prepare  a  suita- 
ble discourse.  And  then,  having  exhausted  spiritual  grace 
in  bedecking  the  tomb  of  the  lovely,  should  he  —  good 
heavens  !  could  he  descend  from  those  heights  of  beauty 
and  purity  to  the  grave  of  a  superannuated  negro  %  Could 
divine  oratory  so  descend  % 

*'  On  that  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed. 
And  batten  on  this  rnoor  ? " 

Ought  the  cup  of  consolation,  which  he  extended  to  his 
best,  his  worthiest  friends  and  parishioners,  to  be  passed 
in  the  same  hour  to  thick  African  lips  1: 


150  FESSENDEN'S. 

Which  questions  were,  of  course,  decided  in  the  negative. 
There  was  another  minister  in  the  village,  but  he  was  sick. 
What  should  be  done  1  To  go  wandering  about  the  world 
in  search  of  somebody  to  preach  the  funeral  sermon  seemed 
a  hard  case,  —  as  Mr.  WiUiams  remarked  to  the  Judge.     , 

"  Tell  you  what,  Williams,"  said  the  Judge,  —  "  don't 
give  yourself  any  more  trouble  on  that  account.  I  'm  not 
a  minister,  nor  half  good  enough  for  one,"  —  he  could  af- 
ford to  speak  disparagingly  of  himself,  the  beautiful,  gra- 
cious gentleman  !  —  "  but  if  you  can't  do  any  better,  I  '11 
be  present  and  say  a  few  words  at  the  funeral." 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times  !  "  said  the  grateful  ne- 
gro. "Could  n't  be  nothin'  better  'n  that  !  We  never  ex- 
pected no  such  honor  ;  an'  if  my  ole  gran'ther  could  have 
knowed  you  would  speak  to  his  funeral,  he  'd  have  been 
proud,  sir ! " 

"  He  was  a  simple-minded  old  soul !  "  replied  the  Judge, 
pleasantly.  "  And  you  're  another,  Williams  !  However, 
I  'm  glad  you  are  satisfied.  So  this  difficulty  is  settled, 
too."  For  already  one  very  serious  difficulty  had  been 
arranged  through  this  man's  kindness. 

Did  I  neglect  to  mention  it,  —  how,  when  the  old  negro 
died,  his  family  had  no  place  to  bury  him  1  The  rest  of 
his  race,  dying  before  him,  had  been  gathered  to  the 
mother's  bosom  in  distant  places  :  long  lines  of  dusky  an- 
cestors in  Africa  ;  a  few  descendants  in.  America,  —  here 
and  there  a  grave  among  New  England  hills.  Only  one,  a 
child  of  Mr.  Williams's,  had  died  in  Timber ville,  and  been 
placed  in  the  old  burying-ground  over  yonder.  But  that 
was  now  closed  against  interments.  And  as  for  purchas- 
ing a  lot  in  the  new  cemetery,  —  how  could  poor  Mr. 
Williams  ever  hope  to  raise  money  to  pay  for  it  ] 

"  Williams,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  own  several  lots  there, 
and  if  you  '11  be  a  good  boy,  I  '11  make  you  a  present  of 
one." 


FESSENDEN'S.  151 

Ah,  Gingerford  !  Gingerford !  was  it  pure  benevolence 
that  prompted  the  gift  1  Was  the  smile  with  which  you 
afterwards  related  the  circumstance  to  dear  Mrs.  Ginger- 
ford a  smile  of  sincere  satisfaction  at  having  done  a  good 
action  and  witnessed  the  surprise  and  gratitude  of  your 
black  coachman  1  Tell  us,  was  it  altogether  an  accident, 
with  no  tincture  whatever  of  pleasant  malice  in  it,  that  the 
lot  you  selected,  out  of  several,  to  be  the  burial-j)lace  of 
negroes,  lay  side  by  side  with  the  proud  familj^- vault  of 
your  neighbor  Frisbie  1 

The  Judge  was  one  of  those  cool  heads,  who,  when  they 
have  received  an  injury,  do  not  go  raving  of  it  up  and 
down,  but  put  it  quietly  aside,  and  keep  their  temper,  and 
rest  content  to  wait  patiently,  perhaps  years,  perhaps  a 
lifetime,  for  the  opportunity  of  a  sudden  and  pat  revenge. 
Indeed,  I  suppose  he  would  have  been  well  satisfied  to  an- 
swer Frisbie's  spite  with  the  nobler  revenge  of  magnanimity 
and  smiling  forbearance,  had  not  the  said  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself.  It  was  a  temptation  not  to  be  resisted. 
And  he,  the  most  philanthropical  of  men,  proved  himself 
capable  of  being  also  the  most  cruel. 

There,  in  the  choicest  quarter  of  the  cemetery,  shone  the 
white  ancestral  monuments  of  the  Frisbies.  Death,  the 
leveller,  had  not,  somehow,  levelled  them,  —  proud  and 
pretentious  even  in  their  tombs.  You  felt,  as  you  read 
the  sculptured  record  of  their  names  and  virtues,  that 
even  their  ashes  were  better  than  the  ashes  of  common 
mortals.  They  rendered  sacred  not  only  the  still  enclosure 
where  they  lay,  but  all  that  beautiful  sunny  bank  ;  so  that 
nobody  else  had  presumed  to  be  buried  near  them,  but  a 
.space  of  many  square  rods  on  either  side  was  left  still  un- 
appropriated, —  until  now,  when,  lo  !  here  comes  a  black 
funeral,  and  the  corpse  of  one  who  had  been  a  slave  in  his 
day,  to  profane  the  soil ! 


152  FESSENDEN'S. 

IX. 

•  TWO    FUNERALS. 

Nor  is  this  all,  alas  !  There  comes  not  one  funeral  pro- 
cession only.  The  first  has  scarcely  entered  the  cemetery 
when  a  second  arrives.  Side  by  side  the  dead  of  this  day 
are  to  be  laid  :  our  old  friend  the  negro,  and  the  lovely 
young  lady  we  have  mentioned,  —  even  the  fairest  of  Mr. 
Frisbie's  own  children. 

For  it  is  she.  The  sweetest  of  the  faces  Fessenden's 
saw  that  stormy  night  at  the  window,  and  yearned  to  be 
with  in  the  bright  room  where  the  fire  was,  —  that  dear 
warm  face  is  cold  in  yonder  coffin  which  the  afflicted  family 
are  attending  to  the  tomb. 

And  Frisbie,  as  we  have  somewhere  said,  loved  his  chil- 
dren. And  in  the  anguish  of  his  bereavement  he  had  not 
heeded  the  singular  and  somewhat  humiliating  fact  that 
his  daughter  had  issued  from  the  portal  of  Time  in  com- 
pany with  one  of  his  most  despised  tenants,  —  that,  in  the 
same  hour,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  Death  had  sum- 
moned them,  leading  them  together,  as  it  were,  one  with 
his  right  hand  and  one  with  his  left,  the  way  of  all  the 
world.  So  that  here  was  a  surprise  for  the  proud  and 
grief-smitten  parent. 

"  What  is  all  that,  Stephen  1 "  he  demands,  with  sudden 
consternation. 

"  It  seems  to  be  another  funeral,  sir.  They  're  buryin' 
somebod}^  next  lot  to  yours." 

"  Who,  who,  Stephen  1 " 

"I  —  I  ruther  guess  it 's  the  old  nigger,  sir,"  says 
Stephen. 

The  mighty  man  is   shaken.     Wrath  and  sorrow  and 


FESSENDEN'S.  153 

insulted  affection  convulse  him  for  a  moment.  His  face 
grows  purple,  then  pale,  and  he  struggles  with  his  neck- 
cloth, which  is  choking  him.  He  sees  the  tall  form  of  Gin- 
gerford  at  the  grave,  and  knows  what  it  is  to  wish  to 
murder  a  man.  Were  those  two  Christian  neighbors  quite 
alone,  in  this  solitude  of  the  dead,  I  fear  one  of  them 
would  soon  be  a  fit  subject  for  a  coroner's  inquest  and  an 
epitaph.  0  pride  and  hatred !  with  what  madness  can 
you  insj)ire  a  mortal  man  !  0  Fessenden's  !  bless  thy 
stars  that  thou  art  not  the  only  fool  alive  this  day,  nor 
the  greatest ! 

Fessenden's  walked  alone  to  the  funeral,  talking  by  him- 
self, and  now  and  then  laughing.  Gentleman  Bill  thought 
his  conduct  indecorous,  and  reproved  him  for  it. 

"  Gracious  ! "  said  the  lad,  "  don't  you  see  who  I  'm  talk- 
in'  with  1 " 

"  No,  sir,  —  I  can't  say  I  see  anybod}',  sir.  " 

"  No  1 "  exclaimed  the  astonished  youth.  "  Why,  it 's 
the  old  man,  goin'  to  his  own  funeral  !  " 

This,  you  may  say,  was  foolishness ;  but,  0,  it  was  inno- 
cent and  beautiful  foolishness,  compared  with  that  of  Fris- 
bie  and  his  sympathizers,  when  they  discovered  the  negro 
burial,  and  felt  that  their  mourning  was  too  respectable  to 
be  the  near  companion  of  the  mourning  of  those  poor 
blacks,  and  that  their  beautiful  dead  was  too  precious  to 
be  laid  in  the  earth  beside  their  dead. 

What  could  be  done  1  Indignation  and  sorrow  availed 
nothing.  The  tomb  of  the  lovely  was  prepared,  and  it  only 
remained  to  pity  the  aftront  to  her  ashes,  as  she  was  com- 
mitted to  the  chill  depths  amid  silence  and  choking  tears. 
It  is  done  ;  and  the  burial  of  the  old  negro  is  deferentially 
delayed  until  the  more  aristocratic  rites  are  ended. 

Gingerford  set  the  example  of  standing  with  his  hat  off 
in  the  yellow  sunshine  and  wintry  air,  with  his  noble  head 
7* 


154  FESSENDEN'S. 

bowed  low,  while  the  last  prayer  was  said  at  the  maiden's 
sepulture.  Then  he  lifted  up  his  face,  radiant ;  and  the 
flashing  and  rainbow  -  spanned  torrent  of  his  eloquence 
broke  forth.  He  had  reserved  his  forces  for  this  hour. 
He  had  not  the  Williams  family  and  their  friends  alone 
for  an  audience,  but  many  who  had  come  to  attend  the 
young  lady's  funeral  remained  to  hear  the  Judge.  It  was 
w^orth  their  while.  Finely  as  he  had  discoursed  at  the  hut 
of  the  negroes,  before  the  corpse  was  brought  out,  that 
was  scarcely  the  time,  that  w^as  certainly  not  the  place,  for 
a  crowning  effort  of  his  genius.  But  here  his  larger  audi- 
ence, the  open  air,  the  blue  heavens,  the  graves  around, 
the  burial  of  the  young  girl  side  by  side  with  the  old 
slave,  all  contributed  to  inspire  him.  Human  brotherhood, 
universal  love,  the  stern  democracy  of  death,  immortality, 
—  these  were  his  theme.  Life,  incrusted  with  convention- 
alities; Death,  that  strips  them  all  away.  This  is  the 
portal  (pointing  to  the  grave)  at  which  the  soul  drops  all 
its  false  encumbrances, — rank,  riches,  sorrow,  shame.  It 
enters  naked  into  eternity.  There  worldly  pride  and  ar- 
rogance have  no  place.  There  false  judgment  goes  out 
like  a  sick  man's  night-lamp,  in  the  morning  light  of  truth. 
In  the  courts  of  God  only  spiritual  distinctions  prevail. 
That  you  were  a  lord  in  this  life  will  be  of  no  account 
there,  where  the  humblest  Christian  love  is  preferred  before 
the  most  brilliant  selfishness,  —  where  the  master  is  de- 
graded, and  the  servant  is  exalted.  And  so  forth,  and  so 
forth ;  a  brief  but  eloquent  address,  of  w^hich  it  is  to  be 
regretted  that  no  report  exists. 

Then  came  the  prayer,  —  for  the  Judge  had  a  gift  that 
way  too ;  and  the  tenderness  and  true  feeling  with  which 
he  sj)oke  of  the  old  negro  and  the  wrongs  of  his  race  drew 
tears  from  many  eyes.  Then  a  hymn  was  sung,  —  those 
who  had  stayed  to  sneer  joining  their  voices  seriously  with 
those  of  the  lowly  mourners. 


FESSENDEN'S.  155 


REVENGE    OF    THE    FRISBIE   FACTION. 

"What  did  I  tell  your'  says  Gingerford,  walking 
familiarly  arm  in  arm  with  his  son  James,  not  long  after, 
—  a  beautiful  sight,  to  friendly  village  eyes,  as  perhaps  he 
is  aware.  (Does  he  not  hear  in  fancy  the  whispers  of 
admiring  elderly  ladies ]  —  "What  a  charming  picture  of 
father  and  son  !  How  fond  and  proud  they  are  of  each 
other!"  for  the  Judge,  as  we  know,  is  human.)  "Who 
ridicules  us  now^  Our  good  friend  Frisbie  could  not  do 
us  a  real  injury ;  we  have  transmuted  his  base  coin  into 
gold.  Look  at  these  people  "  ;  and  the  elegant  Gingerford 
touches  his  hat,  smilingly,  to  one  and  another.  "They 
are  all  on  our  side,  James." 

But  the  sagacious  man  is  for  once  mistaken.  The 
Frisbie  faction  is  still  strong  in  town;  and,  while  many 
have  been  won  over  from  it  by  the  Judge's  admirable 
behavior  towards  his  colored  neighbors,  others  of  its  ad- 
herents, more  violent  than  ever  in  their  animosity  towards 
him  and  them  since  his  neat  retort  upon  Frisbie,  are  even 
now  meditating  mischief. 

Not  directly  against  Gingerford, — they  know  too  well 
how  the  blows  of  malice  recoil  from  that  polished  shield 
of  his.  Their  aim  is  lower;  it  is  levelled  at  his  black 
friends  over  the  way.  Frisbie  himself,  sick  enough  of  his 
own  sorry  jest,  and  tired  of  his  tenants,  was  still  too 
proud  to  molest  them  further,  —  and,  let  us  believe,  too 
humane.  The  poor,  stricken,  humbled  parent  kept  his 
own  counsel,  and  certainly  gave  no  encouragement  to  the 
leaders  of  the  plot ;  perhaps  he  was  not  even  aware  of  it. 
But  did   not    Stephen   know  his   master's   secret   mind] 


156  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  Of  course  he  won't  do  anything  to  get  the  niggers  out 
of  his  house,  since  he  has  moved  them  in  it ;  but  do  j^ou 
think  he  's  such  a  fool"  that  he  won't  be  glad  to  have  us  do 
the  job,  while  he  knows  nothing  about  it  1 " 

Stephen  is  animated  particularly  by  his  hatred  of 
Gentleman  Bill ;  and  he  has  for  a  confederate  one  who  is 
moved  by  a  still  stronger  personal  resentment,  —  the  man 
Dorson,  Gingerford's  late  coachman,  whose  wrongs  are 
burning  to  be  revenged  on  his  successor ;  while  pure  and 
unadulterated  prejudice  against  color  inspires  tlie  rest  of 
the  whispering,  skulking  crew  that  surround  the  negro's 
house  this  wild  March  night. 

It  is  Saturday  evening  again,  and  late.  The  village 
lights  are  out,  or  going  out,  all  save  one,  —  this  which 
shines  through  the  dingy  curtains  of  the  negro's  hut ;  for 
these  dark-skinned  children  of  the  Night  are  sadly  inclined 
to  keep  late  hours.  Within  you  see,  seated,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  foot  resting  upon  tlie 
wood-box.  Gentleman  Bill,  taking  his  ease  after  his  week's 
work  in  the  shop,  and  occasionally  making  a  quiet  observa- 
tion. At  the  other  side  of  the  stove  is  Joe,  playing  r,t 
checkers  with  Fessenden's,  who,  feeble-minded  in  many 
things,  showed  an  aptitude  for  that  game.  Again  the  tv,o 
girls  are  jDutting  away  the  supper  dishes,  their  mother  i:i 
mending  a  garment,  the  old  grandmother  is  nodding  over 
her  knitting,  and  Mr.  Williams,  witlT  spectacles  on  nose,  h 
turning  the  leaves  of  the  old  Bible. 

"  Seems  to  me  the  winders  in  this  house  rattle  more  'n 
they  used  to  be  accustomed  to,"  remarks  the  gentleman 
of  the  family  as  the  gusts  of  wind  smite  the  sashes.  "  An- 
tiquated old  shell,  rather." 

"What  's  aut-acquainted  ? "  grins  woolly-headed  Joe, 
looking  up  from  his  game  of  checkers.  "  Any  relation  to 
nncle-acquainted  ^ " 


FESSENDEN-S.  157 

"  0  father !  "  says  Bill,  despairingly,  "  a'n't  that  child 
ever  going  to  have  a  suitable  bringing  up  ] " 

"  What  about  that  child  1 "  says  the  grandmother, 
jealously,  suddenly  waking  and  plying  her  knitting-needles. 

"  I  was  speaking  of  the  old  house,"  replies  Bill.  "  Loose 
in  the  jints,  since  it  was  moved ;  hardly  a  fit  residence  for 
a  respectable,  growing  family." 

"Now  don't  you  say  a  word  ag'inst  the  old  house!" 
retorts  the  grandmother.  "  I  'd  as  soon  you  'd  go  to 
'busin'  me.  It 's  been  a  home  to  us  ever  sence  afore  you 
was  born,  and  it 's  a  good  home  yit.  The  Lord  has  pre- 
sarved  it  to  us,  and  I  trust  he  '11  presarve  it  still,  — 
anyways  till  I  'm  ready  to  move  to  my  long  home.  Then, 
if  you  want  a  better  house,  I  hope  you  'U  find  it." 

"■  I  did  n't  mean  no  disrespect  to  the  venerable  tene- 
ment, granny.  But  you  see  it 's  really  gitting  too  small ; 
very  much  deficient  in  room,  'specially  since  I  brought 
home  a  permanent  boarder  on  my  back,"  —  with  a  glance 
at  Fessenden  s. 

"  That  's  a  mos'  ongTateful  remark,  William !  We 
should  n't  have  the  ole  house  at  all,  if  't  wa'n't  for  him. 
Ye  brought  good  luck  into  it,  when  ye  brought  him 
in,  an'  it  's  stayed  with  us  ever  sence,  bless  the  boy ! 
Don't  ye  go  to  pickin'  no  flaws  in  the  Lord's  blessin's ;  if 
ye  do  they  '11  be  took  away  from  us,  sure  ! " 

"You  quite  misapprehend  the  drift  of  my  observation," 
says  Bill,  and  gives  a  sudden  start.  "  Bj^  George  !  that 
wa'n't  no  winder  rattling  !  " 

"  Sounded  to  me  like  a  stone  throwed  agin  the  clab- 
boards,"  remarks  Mr.  Williams,  mildly  anxious,  looking 
up  from  his  book. 

The  stalwart  young  black  steps  quietly  to  a  window,  on 
the  side  of  the  house  struck  by  the  missile,  and  lifts  a 
corner  of  the  curtain.      "  Jes'  le'  me  ketch  any  feller  up  to 


158  FESSENDEN'S. 

that  sort  o'  thing,  that 's  all !  "  quoth  he,  with  a  menacing 
laugh. 

He  sees  darkness  without,  and  nothing  more.  But  un- 
fortunately his  head,  defined  upon  the  background  of  the 
lamp-lighted  room,  presents  a  tempting  mark  to  his  enemy, 
Stephen,  at  that  moment  lurking  behind  a  pile  of  the  fam- 
ily stove-wood,  a  stick  of  which  is  in  his  hand. 

The  two  checker -players  give  little  heed  to  the  dis- 
turbance ;  and  now  suddenly  Joe  springs  from  his  chair, 
overturning  it,  and  shrieking  triumphantly,  "King-row! 
king-row  !  crown  him  !  "  performs  a  sort  of  wild  war-dance 
about  the  room,  and  sits  down  again,  under  his  brother's 
severe  reproof. 

"  Keep  quiet,  can't  ye  ?  you  young  barbarian  !  Don't 
you  see  I  'm  reconnoitrin'  ]     Hush  !  " 

An  instant  of  deep  silence  followed,  then  came  a  crash 
at  the  window.  At  the  same  time  fragments  of  glass 
struck  Gentleman  Bill's  face  and  shirt-bosom,  and  a  club, 
—  a  stick  of  green  stove-wood,  in  short,  —  its  force  broken 
by  the  sash,  fell  into  the  room  at  his  feet. 

Alarm  and  consternation  entered  with  it :  the  checker- 
board was  overturned ;  the  girls  dropped  a  dish  or  two ; 
Bill,  brandishing  the  club,  rushed  to  the  door,  his  father 
calling  to  him  and  trying  to  hold  him  back. 

"No,  sir!"  cries  the  athletic  young  fellow.  "Ahead 
gits  cracked  for  this  !  " 

He  flings  the  door  open,  and  leaps  out,  to  be  met  by  a 
shower  of  small  stove-wood,  hurled  by  assailants  shielded 
from  sight  by  the  outer  darkness,  while  the  light  stream- 
ing from  within  exposes  him  to  view.  Perceiving  the 
odds  against  him,  the  yoimg  man  hurls  his  club  and 
retreats  into  the  room  with  blood  trickling  from  a  gash 
in  his  cheek.  One  stick  enters  with  him,  whizzes  past 
the  elder  Williams's  grizzled  locks,  and  strikes  the  stove- 


FESSENDEN'S.  159 

pipe  with  no  small  clatter,  before  the  door  is  closed  and 
barred. 

"  Guess  they  thought  I  did  n't  bring  in  wood  enough  !  " 
says  Fessenden's,  laying  the  stick  in  the  box.  "But  they 
better  take  care  !  " 

Mrs.  Williams  and  the  girls  begin  to  sob  and  cry.  The 
old  grandmother  hastens  to  stanch  Bill's  wound,  saying 
to  Joe  by  the  way,  "  Under  the  bed,  deary  !  You  '11  git 
hurted  !  "  Bill  pushes  her  off :  "Never  mind  a  little  blood ! 
More  '11  flow  'fore  this  little  business  is  finished  ! "  And 
he  snatches  an  axe  from  the  corner. 

"  Be  quiet !  they  're  knocking ! "  says  mild  Mr.  Wil- 
liams, laying  his  hand  on  his  son's  arm. 

"  Let  Bill  fire  the  old'  axe  at  'em  !  "  gibbers  Joe,  peeping 
affrighted  from  beneath  the  bed. 

"  Just  open  the  door  sudden  for  answer ! "  says  Bill, 
holding  the  weapon  ready,  his  eyes  gleaming  wickedly. 

"That  won't  do,  William.  —  What  do  you  want  out 
there  1 " 

The  knocking  ceases,  and  a  voice  replies:  "We  've  come 
to  clean  you  out.  Agree  to  quit  this  house  and  this  town 
within  a  week,  and  it  's  all  right ;  we  give  you  that  time." 

"1  pay  Mr.  Frisbie  rent  for  this  house,"  humbly  sug- 
gests Mr.  Williams. 

"  Can't  help  that.  We  've  got  tired  of  niggers  in  this 
town,  and  we  're  going  to  be  rid  of  you." 

"  But  if  we  agree  to  stay  1 "    Bill  shouts  back. 

"  You  '11  have  to  go.  If  you  stick,  some  of  ye  '11  get 
hurt,  and  your  house  '11  come  down,"  roars  the  voice 
outside. 

"  I  know  that  man  !  "  says  Fessenden's,  recognizing  the 
voice.      "  He  would  n't  let  your  cows  in  Judge's  yard." 

"  Dorson  !  "  remarks  Bill.  "  Jest  open,  father,  and  he  '11 
be  a  head  shorter  in  no  time  !  " 


160  FESSENDEN'S. 

"  Do  it,  pappy ! "  cries  Mrs.  Williams,  with  sudden  fire 
blazing  through  her  tears. 

"  Tt  is  written,  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill,'  "  replies  the  pious 
Williams. 

"Do  you  promise?"  demands  Dcft-son. 

"No,  I  can't  promise  that,"  says  the  negro.  "We  have 
no  other  house  to  go  to,  and  we  shall  try  to  stay  here  as 
long  as  Mr.  Frisbie  allows  us.  We  mean  to  be  peaceable, 
law-abiding  people,  and  to  merit  no  good  man's  ill-will ; 
and  why  should  you  persecute  us  in  this  way  1 " 

"We  have  trusted  the  Lord  so  fur,  and  mean  to  trust 
him  still,"  adds  the  quavering  treble  of  the  old  woman's 
earnest  voice. 

"See,  then,  if  the  Lord  will  keep  your  door  from  tum- 
bling in  !  "     And  there  is  a  sound  of  retreating  footsteps. 

"  Why  did  n't  ye  fire  the  axe.  Bill  1  why  did  n't  ye  fire 
the  axe?"  squeaks  Joe,  showing  the  whites  of  his  eyes 
under  a  corner  of  the  bed-quilt. 

"  Trust  the  Lord  !  trust  the  Lord  ! "  the  old  woman 
kept  saying,  with  exalted  energy. 

"Trust  the  Lord  ! "  echoed  Fessenden's,  in  a  loud  voice, 
seized  by  one  of  his  strange  fits  of  inspiration.  "You 
won't  lose  your  house  ;  they  say  so  !  " 

"  Who  says  so  1 "    demanded  Bill. 

"  The  angels  !  " 

"  Go  to  thimder  with  your  angels ! "  exclaimed  the 
impatient  young  black,  irreverently.  "  They  're  coming 
again  !     Now,   father  !  " 

As  he  spoke  the  door  burst  in  with  a  great  crash,  fol- 
lowed by  the  but-end  of  a  stick  of  timber  which  had  been 
used  as  a  battering-ram.  As  that  was  precipitately  retir- 
ing, axe-wielding  Gentleman  Bill  rushed  out  after  it,  but 
came  to  grief  before  he  could  strike  a  blow ;  the  muffled 
villains  who  carried  it  flung  it  down  at  sight  of  him,  and 


FESSENDEN'S.  161 

the  heavy  end,  striking  his  shin,  fell  thence  upon  his  foot. 
The  axe  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  lay  howling,  when 
Mr.  Williams  ran  to  his  rescue. 

"  They  '11  kill  you,  pappy ! "  shrieked  Mrs.  Williams, 
trying  to  support  the  broken  door. 

"  I  won't  let  'em ;  but  they  may  kill  me  ! "  cried  that 
simple  fellow,  Fessenden's ;  and,  running  out,  he  placed 
himself,  resolute  and  erect,  between  the  negroes  and  their 
assailants.  "Don't  hit  them,  hit  me!"  he  called  out,  in 
perfect  sincerity  and  earnest  self-devotion. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  even  the  most  depraved  of  the 
rioters  was  bad  enough  to  intend  the  poor  innocent  lad  a 
serious  harm.  But  he  was  in  their  way;  and  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  a  billet  of  hard  wood  was  flung 
at  the  negroes.  Its  pointed  end  struck  his  temple,  and  he 
staggered  back  towards  the  house,  following  Mr.  Williams, 
who  was  helping  Gentleman  Bill  across  the  threshold. 


XI. 

CONSEQUENCES. 

The  rioters  seemed  aware  that  a  grave  accident  had 
occurred,  and  to  be  frightened  at  their  own  work.  The 
shattered  door  was  closed,  and  in  an  instant  all  was  silent 
about  the  hut,  except  the  wind.  And  when,  a  minute 
later,  the  door  was  boldly  opened  again,  and  Mr.  Williams 
appeared,  fearless  of  missiles,  calling  loudly,  "  Help  1 
will  somebody  bring  help,  for  mercy's  sake  ! "  the  dispers- 
ing mob,  in  still  greater  alarm,  skulked  off,  and  made  no 
sign.  As  if  they,  who  had  committed  a  deed  of  darkness, 
could  be  expected  now  to  come  forward  and  expose  them- 
selves by  answering  that  appeal ! 


162  FESSENDEN'S.  ^  ^ 

Mr.  Williams  goes  back  into  the  hut,  but  reappears 
presently,  and  is  hurrying  into  the  street,  when  he  sees  a 
lantern  coming  over  towards  him  from  the  Judge's  gate. 

"  That  you,  Williams  ?  "  cries  Gingerford,  meeting  him. 
"  What 's  the  matter  1     Where  are  you  going  1 " 

"■  I  was  going  for  you  first,  then  for  the  doctor."  And 
Williams  relates  in  a  few  words  what  has  chanced. 

"I  heard  the  villains!"  says  the  Judge,  striding  to- 
wards the  hut.  "They  shall  rue  this  night,  if  there  is 
law  hi  the  land  !  " 

He  has  regained  his  self-control  when  he  enters  and 
looks  upon  the  pallid  face  and  lifeless  form  of  the  simple 
boy  lying  upon  the  bed,  with  the  women  bending  over 
him,  trying  to  bring  back  to  that  shattered  clay  sense  and 
breath. 

Williams  returns  with  the  doctor,  and  now  excited 
neighbors  —  for  the  noise  of  the  riot  has  got  abroad  — 
begin  to  come  in ;  among  them,  our  friend  Frisbie,  accom- 
panied by  Stephen,  looking  pale.  They  find  Gingerford, 
with  his  coat  off,  chafing  one  of  the  hands  of  the  mur- 
dered boy. 

"Gentlemen,"  says  the  Judge,  stepping  back  to  make 
room  for  the  doctor,  "  you  see  what  has  been  done  ! " 

"  How  did  it  happen  1 "  falters  poor  Frisbie,  very  much 
disturbed. 

"  Yes  !  "  exclaims  Stephen,  with  conspicuous  innocence, 
"  how  did  it  happen  1 " 

"It  was  a  perfectly  murderous  attack!"  cries  Gentle- 
man Bill,  nursing  his  broken  shin  in  the  corner.  "  They 
had  smashed  that  winder,  and  the  door,  —  the  fiends 
incarnate,  —  and  disfigured  my  features  with  a  club ;  and 
when  I  rushed  out  to  defend  the  domicile,  they  flung  a 
big  beam  at  my  legs,  —  crippled  me,  as  you  see ;  then  as 
my  father  went  to  pick  me  up,  and  the  clubs  kept  coming, 


FESSENDEN'S.  163 

that  boy  sacrificed  himself;  he  rushed  between  us  and 
the  cowardly  attackers,  and  got  a  stick  side  the  head. 
That 's  the  history,  gentlemen." 

*' Who  were  they  1 "  demands  the  flushed  Frisbie. 

"  Ay,  ay !  who  were  they  ] "  echoes  the  virtuous  Ste- 
phen. 

*^  I  a'n't  prepared  to  give  evidence  on  that  p'int, 
though  one  or  two  of  'em  is  known,"  says  Gentleman  Bill, 
significantly. 

Frisbie  makes  a  choking  effort  to  speak,  and  finally 
addresses  his  much-hated  neighbor:  ''Judge  Gingerford, 
you  and  I  have  had  some  political  differences,  and  perhaps 
personal  misunderstandings,  but  about  this  thing  we  feel 
alike.  No  man  can  abominate  such  proceedings  more 
than  I  do." 

"  I  am  relieved  to  hear  you  say  it,"  replies  the  Judge ; 
"  and,  believing  that  you  speak  sincerely,  I  offer  you  my 
hand." 

Frisbie,  flustered,  could  not  well  refuse  this  magnani- 
mously proffered  token  of  reconciliation ;  and  the  Judge's 
shining  behavior  shed  something  of  its  lustre  even  upon 
him.  The  spectators  were  so  much  affected  by  this  scene, 
that  Stephen  immediately  turned  and  offered  his  hand  to 
Gentleman  Bill,  who  wrung  it  with  a  sardonic  grin. 

"Excuse  me,  my  friends,"  said  Frisbie,  looking  very 
apoplectic  in  the  face,  "  but  I  left  a  sick  child  at  home ; 
I  was  watching  with  her  when  Stephen  came  to  tell  me 
there  was  a  disturbance  in  the  village." 

"I  had  heard  a  noise  and  gone  out  to  the  stable, 
thinking  it  was  the  horses,"  Stephen  makes  haste  to 
explain. 

"Now,  if  I  can  do  nothing,  I  will  go  back  to  my 
sick  child,"  adds  Frisbie.  "What  do  you  think,  doc- 
tor T' 


164  FESSENDEN'S. 

"The  boy  is  dead,"  replies  the  doctor,  quietly,  having 
completed  his  examination. 

"  He  died  for  us ! "  exclaimed  the  old  negress,  bending 
with  devoutly  clasped  hands  over  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
"  He  gave  up  his  life  for  us  poor  colored  folks,  when  the 
children  of  the  Evil  One  surrounded  us.  He  was  simple 
in  his  mind;  but  he  done  all  a  Christian  could  do.  I 
bless  the  Lord  for  him,  for  he  was  a  child  of  God,  and  he 
has  gone  to  be  an  angel  with  the  rest." 

Then  Mrs.  Williams  and  the  girls  came  and  wept  over 
the  pale  corpse,  and  Joe,  moved  by  the  contagion  of  grief, 
sent  up  a  wild  wail  of  woe  that  filled  the  hut. 


XII. 


A    STRANGER   VISITS    THE   GRAVE. 

Of  course  there  was  an  inquest,  and  of  course  the  whole 
thing  was  duly  reported  in  the  newspapers ;  in  conse- 
quence of  which  a  stranger  from  a  neighboring  county 
drove  into  the  village  one  afternoon,  and,  after  making 
some  inquiries  of  persons  he  met,  reined  up  at  the  negro's 
hut.  As  he  declined  to  alight  (for  good  reasons,  appar- 
ently, being  a  man  of  such  marvellous  ponderosity  that, 
once  out  of  the  buggy,  which  his  breadth  of  beam  com- 
pletely filled,  it  were  a  wonder  how  he  could  ever  get  back 
into  it  again),  Mr.  Williams,  who  had  just  finished  his 
dinner,  went  out  to  speak  with  him. 

He  had  come  to  get  some  particulars  concerning  the 
inquest  and  the  subject  of  it. 

"  About  the  boy,"  said  Mr.  Williams ;  "  I  suppose  I  can 
tell  you  as  much  as  anybody ;  but  about  the  inquest 
you  'd  better  see  the  coroner  or  Judge  Gingerford." 


FESSENDEN'S.  .  105 

"  The  inquest  did  n't  seem  to  be  very  satisfactory,"  re- 
marked the  stranger,  with  slow,  measured  words  from 
broad,  unctuous  lips. 

"  They  brought  in  that  he  come  to  his  death  at  the 
hands  of  some  person  or  persons  unknown.  Some  have 
been  suspected,  but  the  only  one  we  felt  pretty  sure  of 
has  run  off,  —  that  was  the  man  Dorson.  'T  was  better 
so,  I  suppose." 

"  I  think  justice  on  the  offenders  would  have  been  more 
in  the  interest  of  religion  and  good  morals,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  grave  emphasis.  "And  have  you  no  per- 
sonal resentment  1 " 

"  What  would  be  the  good  of  that  1 "  replied  Williams. 
"The  feeling  in  town  is  so  strong  ag'inst  'em,  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  '11  molest  us  in  futur'.  And  for  what  they  've 
done,  I  believe  they  '11  find  punishment  enough  in  their 
own  consciences.  So  we  all  feel  except  my  son  that  had 
his  leg  hurt ;  he  is  pretty  hot  ag'inst  'em  yet,  but  he  '11 
feel  better  as  his  leg  gits  well." 

"  Did  the  boy  have  suitable  burial  1 " 

^' Yes,  sir,  I  should  say  so  ;  I  '11  go  and  show  you  where, 
if  you  like." 

"  It  might  be  a  satisfaction  to  see  his  grave,"  remarked 
the  stranger;  and,  with  the  negro  walking  beside  the 
buggy,  he  drove  over  to  the  new  cemetery. 

"This  is  my  lot,  sir,"  said  Williams.  "It  was  given 
me  by  the  Judge  when  my  old  gran'ther  died.  This 
new  grave  is  the  one,  —  next  to  Mr.  Frisbie's  lot.  We 
had  a  regular  sermon  by  a  minister,  and  a  fine  one  it  was, 
though  he  did  n't  say  no  such  beautiful  words  as  the 
Judge  said  over  my  old  gTan'ther.  But  that  could  n't 
have  been  expected ;  there  a'n't  another  such  a  man  in 
the  world  as  Judge  Gingerford  !  He  has  had  his  enemies, 
but   I  believe   they  're  turning  about  to  be   his   friends. 


166  FESSENDEN'S. 

Mr.  Frisbie  was  very  much  displeased  because  he  gave 
us  this  lot,  but  he  is  getting  over  it.  He  has  had  another 
child  very  sick,  —  he  buried  one  here  the  very  day  my 
old  gran'ther  was  laid  in  the  ground  ;  and  the  Judge  has 
been  to  speak  friendly  words  to  him  ;  and  my  old  mother 
is  over  there  now,  nussing  the  girl,  —  they  found  it  hard 
to  git  a  good  nuss ;  and,  sir,  even  Mr.  Frisbie  appears 
very  much  different  towards  us  now." 

"  I  learn  that  you  behaved  in  a  very  Christian  manner 
towards  this  boy.  As  I  have  some  interest  in  him,  I  shall 
wish  to  reward  you  for  your  trouble."  And  the  fat  man 
took  out  a  fat  pocket-book. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Williams,  "but  I  couldn't  tech 
no  pay  for  what  we  done  for  him,  no  way  in  the  world. 
He  was  a  blessing  to  us  from  the  time  he  come  into  our 
house,  and  he  has  left  a  blessing  with  us.  The  angels 
sent  him  to  us,  —  he  always  said  they  did,  and  I  believe 
him." 

"He  had  curious  notions  about  the  angels,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  peculiar  smile.  "His  friends  tried  to 
teach  him  differently,  but  he  was  singularly  obstinate 
about  certain  things ;  I  even  —  perhaps  they  were  too 
harsh  with  him,  in  the  way  of  their  duty.  Justice  is  jus- 
tice, and  I  must  insist  upon  your  taking  some  compensa- 
tion ;  this  is  very  slight." 

He  held  two  or  three  bills  in  his  hand,  and  Williams 
could  see  that  one  of  them  bore  the  figures  "  100,"  —  more 
money  than  he  had  ever  possessed.  Still  it  would  have 
seemed  to  him  like  the  price  of  blood,  had  he  taken  it ; 
and  reluctantly  at  last  the  man  put  the  notes  back  into 
his  pocket. 

"  May  I  ask,  are  you  a  relative  of  his  1 "  said  Williams, 
as  they  parted  at  the  cemetery  gate. 

"0  no ;  he  has  wealthy  relatives,  though  they  do  not 


FESSENDEN'S.  167 

care  to  be  publicly  known  as  such ;  his  mental  infirmity 
—  you  understand." 

"  Then  may  I  ask  if  you  —  " 

"  I  was  only  employed  to  take  care  of  him.  My  name," 
said  the  stranger,  touching  up  his  horse,  "  is  —  Fessen- 
den." 

Not  long  after,  Mr.  Williams  had  the  remains  of  his 
child  taken  from  the  old  burying-ground,  and  laid  beside 
the  patriarch.  Simple  tombstones  marked  the  spot,  and 
commemorated  the  old  man's  extreme  age  and  early  bond- 
age. 

Another  tablet,  of  pure  white  marble,  was  erected  over 
the  grave  of  the  simple  boy,  bearing  the  device  of  a  dove, 
and  this  inscription,  —  chosen  from  the  old  grandmother's 
words,  — 

^'  H  €l)ilb  of  a^ot)»" 

Need  we  say  that  the  hand  of  Judge  Gingerford  was  in 
all  these  things  1 

After  the  outrage  upon  the  Williams  family,  in  the  full 
flush  of  public  indignation  and  sympathy,  the  sagacious 
man  had  caused  a  subscription  paper  to  circulate  for  their 
benefit.  That  he  should  lead  off  the  list  with  a  liberal 
figure  was  natural,  it  was  characteristic  of  the  superb 
Gingerford ;  but  that  the  very  next  name  on  the  paper, 
pledging  an  equal  sum,  should  have  been  Frisbie's,  was 
astonishing  to  Timberville,  —  to  everybody,  in  point  of 
fact,  except  the  Judge,  who  had  warily  chosen  his  moment, 
and  who  knew  his  man. 

Such  a  beginning  insured  the  success  of  the  paper.  And 
yet  that  success  did  not  account  for  the  fact,  that,  after 
funereal  and  lapidary  expenses  had  been  paid,  Gingerford, 
treasurer  of  the  fund,  had  still  five  hundred  dollars  of  it 


168  '  FESSENDEN'S. 

left  in  his  hands !  As  poor  Mr.  Williams  declared  with 
tearful  eyes  that  his  folks  had  no  use  for  so  much  money, 
what  did  the  Judge  do  with  it  but  build  them  a  new 
house,  —  "really  a  residence,  a  mansion,"  as  Gentleman 
Bill  termed  it,  —  upon  a  lot  purchased  for  the  purpose, 
situated  not  quite  in  front  of  the  Judge's,  not  exactly 
under  the  Gingerford  windows,  as  fastidious  readers  will 
be  pleased  to  know.  How  large  a  part  of  all  that  mone}^ 
had  passed  through  the  portly  pocket-book  of  the  portly 
stranger,  and  was  in  fact  the  origin  of  the  fund  which 
had  been  devised  to  cover  it,  Williams,  fortunately  for  his 
peace  of  mind,  never  surmised. 

Early  in  the  spring  —  But  no  more  !  Have  n't  we 
already  prolonged  our  sketch  to  an  intolerable  length, 
considering  the  subject  of  if?  Not  a  lover  in  it  I  and, 
of  course,  it  is  preposterous  to  think  of  making  a  readable 
story  without  one.  Why  did  n't  we  make  young  Ginger- 
ford  in  love,  with  —  let 's  see  —  Miss  Frisbie  1  and  Miss 
Frisbie's  brother  (it  would  have  required  but  a  stroke  of 
the  pen  to  give  her  one)  in  love  with  —  Creshy  Williams  1 
What  melodramatic  difficulties  might  have  been  built  upon 
this  foundation !  And  as  for  Fessenden's,  he  should  have 
turned  out  to  be  the  son  of  either  Gingerford  or  Frisbie  ! 
But  it  is  too  late  now.  We  acknowledge  our  fatal  mistake. 
Who  cares  for  the  fortunes  of  a  miserable  negro  family  ? 
Who  cares  for  a  —  Fessenden's  1 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 


ME,  BLOSSOM    HEARS    BAD    NEWS. 

MR.  BENJAMIN  BLOSSOM  was  guilty  of  three  faults 
which  his  brother  Archy,  the  bachelor,  could  not  for- 
give :  first,  having  a  family ;  second,  going  to  California ; 
and,  lastly,  dying  when  he  got  there. 

The  news  of  the  lamented  Blossom's  decease  was  brought 
to  Archy  one  morning,  like  Cleopatra's  asp,  with  his  break- 
fast. The  surviving  brother,  unconscious  of  the  sting  pre- 
pared for  him,  comfortably  seated  himself  to  nibble  the 
bread  of  single-blessedness,  spread  his  landlady's  neat  white 
napkin  on  his  lap,  tucking  the  corners  into  the  armholes  of 
his  waistcoat,  stirred  his  coffee,  read  the  morning  paper,  ate 
three  eggs  out  of  the  shell  with  a  little  ivory  scoop,  and 
finally  broke  the  seal  of  the  feminine-looking  envelope  be- 
side his  plate. 

"  T  knew  there  was  something  deused  disagreeable  in 
that  letter ! "  said  Archy,  turning  first  purple  and  then 
pale.  "  The  best  I  can  do,  I  am  always  being  made  a 
victim  !  " 

The  epistle  was  from  the  mother  of  Benjamin's  children  ; 
and  in  a  cramped  chirography,  and  a  style  full  of  gram- 
matical errors,  italics,  and  tears,  indicating  a  good  deal  of 
grief  and  not  much  education,  it  informed  the  bachelor 
that  his  sister-in-law  was  a  widdow  (with  two  d's),  and  his 


170  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOK. 

nephews  and  nieces  ''  orfens."  The  news  would  have  been 
very  apt  to  spoil  his  breakfast,  but  for  the  precaution  he 
had  taken  to  open  the  eggs  before  he  did  the  letter. 

Archy  walked  the  room  with  his  napkin,  and  thought  of  a 
good  many  things,  —  poor  Ben  dying  away  off  there,  among 
strangers,  and,  no  doubt,  in  very  improper  clothes  ;  how  he 
(the  surviving  brother)  would  look  in  black ;  and  what  was 
his  duty  respecting  Priscilla  and  her  orphans. 

"  There  is  no  other  way,  as  I  see,"  he  mused,  wiping  his 
forehead  with  the  napkin, "but  to  submit,  and  be  a  victim  ! 
Think  of  me,  Archibald  Blossom,  suddenly  called  to  be  the 
father  of  four  little  Blossoms ;  and  a  brother  to  her  whose 
heart  is  left  destitoot-t,  double-o,  t,  toot !  "  groaned  Arch}^, 
holding  the  letter  up  to  the  light.  "  Poor  woman  !  poor 
woman  !  no  doubt  she  was  too  much  afflicted  to  give  atten- 
tion to  her  spelling.  A  brother  to  her  !  I  wonder  she 
did  n't  say  a  husband,  while  she  was  about  it !  "  And  Archy 
smiled  a  grim  smile  in  the  glass,  mentally  contrasting  his 
fastidious  habits  of  life  with  the  disagreeable  ties  and  duties 
of  paternity. 

To  the  bachelor's  love  of  nicety  and  sleepless  solicitude 
for  himself  was  joined  an  amiable  disposition  which  was  for- 
ever getting  the  other  traits  into  trouble.  On  the  present 
occasion  he  was  perfectly  well  aware,  as  we  have  seen,  that 
he  was  to  be  made  a  victim  ;  nevertheless,  even  while  heap- 
ing reproaches  upon  the  late  Benjamin,  calling  his  children 
brats,  and  cursing  the  man  who  first  invented  widows,  he 
resolved  to  visit  his  brother's  family,  —  brushed  his  wig,  col- 
ored his  whiskers,  packed  a  carpet-bag,  and  made  other 
preparations  for  the  pious  pilgrimage.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  thought  of  fulfilling  the  Scriptural  injunc- 
tion, "  To  visit  the  fixtherless  and  widows  in  their  affliction  " ; 
although  it  had  long  been  a  personal  habit  of  his  to  keep 
himself,  literally,  "  unspotted  from  the  world." 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  171 

11. 

A   VISIT    TO    THE    WIDOW    AND    FATHERLESS. 

It  was  half  a  dafs  journey  from  Archy's  residence  in  town 
to  the  rural  locality  which  he  had  no  doubt  was  all  this 
time  resounding  with  the  lamentations  of  the  bereaved 
family.  Arrived  at  the  village  hotel,  he  ordered  a  room 
and  supper  ;  and,  after  the  necessary  ablutions  and  refresh- 
ments, and  certain  studious  moments  devoted  to  his  attire, 
he  set  out,  with  his  immaculate  waistcoat  and  gold-headed 
cane,  to  w^alk  to  the  Blossom  cottage. 

It  was  Archy's  first  advent  in  the  place  ;  a  chronic  dis- 
like of  scenes  rustic  and  domestic  having  hitherto  deterred 
him  from  venturing  upon  a  visit.  He  was  surprised  to 
find  the  little  town  so  charming.  It  was  the  close  of  a 
pleasant  June  day  ;  the  sunset  was  superb,  the  air  cool  and 
sweet,  the  foliage  of  the  sunlit  trees  thick  and  refulgent. 

"Really,"  said  Archy  to  himself,  snuffing  the  odor  of 
roses  and  pinks  that  breathed  from  somewhere  about  a 
green-embowered  cottage,  —  "  really,  and  upon  my  soul,  a 
man  might  pass  an  hour  or  two  in  this  place  quite  agree- 
ably !  Young  man,"  —  accosting  a  village  youth,  in  soiled 
shirt-sleeves  and  patched  trousers,  who  approached,  push- 
ing a  loaded  wheelbarrow  before  him  on  the  sidewalk,  — 
"  can  you  inform  me  where  Mrs.  Blossom  lives  ]  " 

"  P'scill  Blossom  1 "  said  the  village  youth,  setting  down 
the  wheelbari'ow  and  tucking  up  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"  Mrs.  Benjamin  Blossom,"  replied  Archy,  with  dignity. 

"  That  's  P'scill,"  said  the  village  youth,  twisting  his 
mo\ith  into  a  queer  expression,  and  eying  Archy  with  a 
slant,  shrewd  leer.  "  You  've  come  past.  Foller  me,  and 
I  '11  show  ye.     Look  out  for  your  shins  ! " 


172  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

He  spat  upon  his  hands,  rubbed  them  together,  and  once 
more  addressed  himself  to  the  wheelbarrow.  Archy  stepped 
aside  and  walked  behind.  The  young  man  turned  up  to 
the  fence  that  enclosed  the  green-embowered  cottage,  from 
about  which  breathed  the  delightful  odor  of  pinks  and 
roses. 

"  Wish  you  'd  jest  open  that  gate,"  said  he,  holding  the 
wheelbarrow. 

Archy,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  opening  gates  for 
people,  stood  amazed  at  this  audacity.  But  the  young  man 
repeating  his  request,  he  concluded  to  take  a  benevolent 
and  humorous  view  of  the  matter,  and,  stepping  before 
the  wheel,  rendered  the  service. 

"  Clear  the  track  now  !  "  And  the  young  man  began  to 
push. 

"  Hold  !  take  care ! "  cried  Archy,  in  peril  of  his  legs. 
"  You  scoundrel  !  "  He  flourished  his  cane.  But  as  the 
wheelbarrow  continued  to  advance,  his  alternative  was 
either  to  suffer  a  collision  or  retreat.  Preferring  the  latter, 
he  went  backward  into  the  yard.  Going  backward  into  the 
yard,  he  struck  his  heel  against  the  border  of  a  flower-bed. 
Striking  his  heel,  he  tripped,  as  was  natural,  and  lost  his 
balance,  being  unable  to  recover  which,  he  made  a  formid- 
able plunge,  falling  in  the  most  awkward  of  all  positions. 
His  cane  flew  into  the  air,  his  hat  into  the  bushes,  and  in- 
stantly he  found  himself  deeply  seated  amidst  some  of  the 
aforesaid  odorous  pinks  and  roses. 

"  Hello  !  look  out !  darnation  !  "  ejaculated  the  youth  of 
the  wheelbarrow  ;  ''  tumblin'  over  them  beds  !  P'scill  '11  be 
in  your  hair  !  "  Which  last  allusion  prompted  the  unfortu- 
nate Mr.  Blossom  to  catch  at  his  wig,  that  useful  article 
having  found  a  closer  affinity  with  a  rosebush  than  with 
the  head  to  which  it  belonged. 

'*  Young  man  ! "  said  Archy,  regaining  his  feet  and  gath- 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR.  173 

ering  up  his  hat  and  stick,   "you   deserve   to  be  caned 
within  an  inch  of  your  life  !  " 

"  Do  I,  though  1 "  and  the  youth's  shrewd  leer  brightened 
into  an  expression  of  sparkling  fun.  "  I  ha'n't  done  noth'n', 
only  showed  you  where  we  live." 

"  Who  cares  where  you  live  1 "  retorted  Archy,  pale  and 
agitated,  hastily  brushing  his  clothes.  "  You  remorseless 
idiot !  I  inquired  for  Mrs.  Blossom's  house." 

"  Wal,  a'n't  I  showin'  ye '?  This  is  our  house  ;  I  'm  her 
cousin,"  said  the  youth.  "  I  a'n't  to  blame,  as  I  see,  for 
your  goin'  on  to  the  bed  backwards." 

"  I  must  always  be  a  victim  !  "  growled  Archy,  using  his 
handkerchief  for  a  duster.  ''Young  man,  I  am  Benjamin 
Blossom's  brother,  and  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Blossom." 

"  Jimmyneddy ! "  cried  the  youth,  "be  ye,  though"? 
Darned  if  I  did  n't  think  you  was  the  new  minister  !  I 
would  n't  have  done  it  —  I  mean,  I  did  n't  mean  to  —  lemme 
brush  off  the  dirt  ! "  And  he  fell  to  using  his  unwashed 
hands  about  Archy's  person  with  a  freedom  more  alarming 
than  any  quantity  of  unadulterated  dirt.  The  poor  bache- 
lor was  endeavoring  to  defend  himself  when  a  young 
woman  appeared,  coming  out  of  the  house,  and  inquiring 
eagerly  what  was  the  trouble. 

A  young  woman,  —  she  might  have  been  forty ;  but  she 
was  still  fresh  and  good-looking,  with  a  plump  figure,  hazel 
ey-es,  a  genuine  complexion,  teeth  that  were  teeth,  beautiful 
hair  of  her  own,  and  a  pleasing  smile.  The  smile  beamed, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  hazel  eyes  shone  through  tears, 
when  the  youth  of  the  wheelbarrow  announced  Mr,  Blos- 
som's brother 

"  0  dear,  good  brother  Archy  ! "  she  exclaimed,  with 
something  between  a  sob  and  cry  of  joy. 

"My  afflicted  sister  — "  began  Archy,  who  had  com- 
posed a  pathetic  little  speech,  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 


174  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

He  paused,  either  from  forgetfulness  or  emotion.  As  she 
made  a  movement  indicative  of  faUing  into  his  arms,  he 
opened  them.  Seeing  them  opened,  she  could  do  no  less 
than  fall  into  them.  So  the  afflicted  couple  embraced,  and 
Mrs.  Benjamin  Blossom  wept  upon  Mr.  Archibald  Blossom's 
shoulder. 

"  To  think  we  should  meet,  for  the  first  time  since  my 
marriage,  on  such  an  occasion  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Blossom. 

"You  have  changed  very  little  since  that  time,"  said 
Archy,  gallantly,  regarding  her  at  arm's-length. 

"  Brother  Archy,"  faltered  Priscilla,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  this  is  my  cousin,  Cyrus  Drole."  And  the  bachelor  was 
formally  introduced  to  the  youth  of  the  wheelbarrow. 

Cyrus  offered  to  shake  hands,  and  Archy,  after  some 
hesitation,  gave  him  two  fingers. 

"And  these,"  said  Mrs.  Blossom,  "are  my  —  his  —  his 
children  !  "  —  meaning  her  late  husband's,  not  the  grinning 
Cyrus's.  She  burst  into  tears,  and  catching  up  the  youn- 
gest of  the  lamented  Benjamin's  progeny,  as  they  came  run- 
ning out  of  the  house,  almost  smothered  it  with  kisses. 

Archy  took  out  his  handkerchief  again,  wiped  first  the 
two  fingers  Cyrus  had  shaken,  and  then  his  eyes. 

"  Poor  little  dears  !  "  he  said,  much  affected.  "  How 
could  Benjamin  ever  leave  for  a  moment  so  —  so  interest- 
ing a  family  !  " 

"  Benjie  —  Phidie — -Archy,"  Mrs.  Blossom  called  the 
names  of  the  three  older  children  according  to  their  ages, 
"this  is  your  uncle, — your  kind,  dear  uncle, — your  father's 
only  brother,  and  now  all  the  father  you  have  left  !  "  More 
sobs,  of  the  choking  species.     "  Kiss  your  good  uncle  !  " 

"Dear  little  ones  —  yes  !  "  said  Archy,  "give  your  uncle 
a  kiss !  (I  am  going  to  be  a  victim,  —  I  know  I  am  ! " 
he  added,  in  a  parenthesis,  to  himself.)  "  There  !  there  ! 
there  ! "  embracing  the  three   children  in   succession,  but 


BACHELOR.  175 

invariably  allowing  the  kisses  to  explode  before  their  faces 
touched  his,  and  then  putting  them  immediately  away.  He 
was  congratulating  himself  on  having  done  up  this  little 
business  so  handsomely,  when  Mrs.  Blossom  reminded 
him. 

"  This  is  the  youngest,  —  the  baby,  brother  Archy ;  don't 
forget  the  baby  ! " 

"Bless  his  little  heart,  no,"  said  Archy,  gayly  fencing 
with  his  forefinger;  "tut-tut!  cock-a-doodle-do !  Really, 
and  upon  ray  soul,  what  a  fine  boy  it  is ! " 

"But  it's  a  girl,"  said  Priscilla,  hugging  the  frightened 
little  thing  to  keep  it  from  crying. 

"0,  indeed  !  my  mistake !  But  it's  all  the  same  till  they 
get  their  baby  frocks  off,"  replied  Archy.  And  the  proces- 
sion moved  into  the  house,  Cyrus  Drole  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Priscilla,  hastily  emptying  the  large  rocking-chair  of  a  cat, 
two  kittens,  and  a  doll,  offered  her  brother-in-law  a  seat. 

"  That 's  my  pussy  ! "  said  Benjie  (young  Blossom  num- 
ber one,  set.  7). 

"  My  doll ! "  screamed  Phidie  (number  two,  set.  5). 

"  Mamma's  chair  !  "  cried  little  Blossom  number  three ; 
and  before  Archy  the  uncle  could  sit  down,  Archy  the 
nephew  had  scrambled  into  it. 

"Archy,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  the  mother,  "get  down 
and  give  his  uncle  the  chair." 

But  Archy,  laying  hold  of  the  arms  with  both  hands,  be- 
gan to  rock  with  all  his  might,  his  bright  eyes  glistening, 
and  his  cm"ls  shaking  merrily  about  his  cheeks.  There- 
upon the  uncle  quietly  helped  himself  to  another  chair, 
which  Priscilla  hastened  to  dust  with  her  apron  before  she 
would  suffer  him  to  sit  down. 

"  Say,  P'scill ! "  cried  Cyrus,  who  had  gone  into  the 
kitchen  to  wash  himself;  and  he  appeared  at  the  sitting- 
room  door,  rubbing  his  hands  in  a  profuse  foam  of  soft- 


176       ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

soap  and  water,  —  "  say  !    wa'n't  it    queer  I    should  take 
Uncle  Archy  for  a  minister  1 " 

"  He  calls  me  uncle  too  !  "  inwardly  groaned  the  bache- 
lor. 

"  You  have  n't  been  to  tea,  I  suppose  1 "  observed  Pris- 
cilla,  setting  out  the  table,  and  putting  up  a  leaf.  Archy 
said  he  had  taken  tea  at  the  hotel.  "  Indeed  !  Are  you 
sure  1     That  was  n't  very  kind  in  you,  brother  Archibald  1 " 

The  young  widow  was  reluctantly  putting  down  the  leaf, 
with  many  expressions  of  regret,  when  all  were  startled  by 
a  sound  of  shivered  glass,  and  Phidie  (abbreviation  of  So- 
phia) uttered  a  cry  of  alarm. 

"  0  ma  !  look  at  Cilly ! "  (Blossom  number  four,  set.  2, 
named  after  her  mother.)  She  had  got  Uncle  Archy 's 
cane,  and  had  tested  the  virtue  of  the  pretty  gold  head  by 
putting  it  through  a  window-pane. 

"  Why,  Cilly !  what  has  she  done'? "  exclaimed  her  mother. 

Cilly  began  to  cry.  At  that  moment  young  Archy 
rocked  over.  Another  cry.  The  benevolent  bachelor 
sprang  to  lift  up  his  namesake  from  beneath  the  over- 
turned chair,  and,  stooping,  struck  his  head  against  Phidie's 
nose.  Third  cry  added  to  the  chorus.  Mrs.  Blossom, 
meanwhile,  was  occupied  in  running  over  Benjie,  whose 
fingers  she  had  previously  pinched  hj  too  suddenly  drop- 
ping the  table-leaf  when  the  alarm  was  given.  At  the  same 
time  Cyrus,  with  his  soapy  hands,  ran  to  the  rescue,  and 
took  the  cane  from  the  affrighted  and  screaming  Cilly. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Archibald  Blossom?"  said  the 
bachelor  to  himself.  '*  I  knew  perfectly  well  you  would  be 
a  victim  ! "  And  stepping  back  upon  a  kitten's  tail,  he 
elicited  a  squall  of  pain  from  the  feline  proprietress  of 
the  pinched  appendage,  and  a  mew  of  solicitude  from  the 
maternal  cat. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  domestic  confusion  in  the  cottage 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR.  177 

surpassed  the  most  dreadful  scenes  the  bachelor's  imagina- 
tion had  ever  conceived.  But  the  tumult  soon  passed  ;  the 
broken  glass  was  picked  up;  the  cane  (with  the  streaks  of 
Cyrus's  soapy  fingers  on  it)  set  away  ;  Phidie's  nose  washed, 
which  had  bled ;  and  the  Blossoms  number  three  and  four 
put  to  bed,  after  saying  their  prayers  and  kissing,  with 
oozy  faces,  —  or,  rather,  kissing  at,  —  their  Uncle  Archy. 
Benjie  and  Phidie  were  suffered  to  sit  up  half  an  hour 
longer,  upon  condition  that  they  should  behave  themselves ; 
at  the  expiration  of  which  time  they  also  said  their  "Now 
I  lay  me"  and  "Our  Father"  at  their  mother's  knee, 
greatly  to  the  edification  of  their  uncle,  whom  they  after- 
ward kissed  at,  with  a  good-night,  on  going  to  bed.  Cyrus, 
in  the  mean  time,  had  gone  to  spend  his  evening  at  the 
village  stores  and  bar-rooms ;  and  now  the  widow  and  the 
surviving  brother  of  the  late  Benjamin  Blossom  were  left 
alone  together. 


III. 

MR.  ARCHIBALD  AND  MRS.  BENJAMIN. 

The  cottage  was  quiet ;  a  single  lamp  was  lighted ;  the 
grief-stricken  widow  took  a  seat  rather  near  the  surviving 
brother.  As  they  discussed  the  lamentable  news  the  last 
steamer  had  brought,  she  drew  her  chair  closer  still,  allow- 
ing her  head,  weighed  down  by  affliction,  to  droop  sym- 
pathetically toward  his  shoulder.  Archy  was  deeply  trou- 
bled. 

"  I  am  more  than  ever  convinced  that  I  shall  be  a 
victim,"  he  thought,  as  he  glanced  sideways  at  his  com- 
panion ;  "  but,  really,  and  upon  my  soul,  there 's  some- 
thing pleasing  about  her  ! " 


178 

In  the  abandonment  of  grief  she  let  her  hand  drop 
upon  his  knee.  She  was  too  much  absorbed  by  her  sor- 
rows to  think  of  removing  it.  Archj  experienced  a  very 
strange  sensation.  He  had  never  in  his  life  known  any- 
thing to  produce  precisely  such  an  effect  as  that  hand 
upon  his  knee  ;  and  he  wondered  if  his  companion  was 
really  aware  that  it  had  gone  a-visiting.  Then  Archy  suf- 
fered his  own  hand  (in  the  abandonment  of  grief)  to  drop 
near  the  widow's.  There  is  something  magnetic  in  hands. 
They  attract  by  laws  more  subtle  than  the  loadstone's. 
Two  peculiarly  charged  hands  upon  the  same  knee  must 
inevitably  touch.  Archy's  palm  lay  in  the  most  careless 
manner  upon  the  back  of  Priscilla's  hand.  Gradually  his 
fingers  tended  to  encircle  hers ;  an  encouraging  move- 
ment on  her  part,  then  a  nestling  together  of  thrilling 
palms,  then  an  ardent  mutual  pressure,  —  and  Archy  found 
himself  in  a  position  which  he  would  have  deemed  utterly 
impossible  an  hour  ago.  With  that  soft,  warm,  flexible,  elec- 
tric conductor  pouring  its  vital  streams  into  his  veins,  he 
comprehended,  as  never  before,  how  men  are  entrapped  into 
matrimony.  He  saw  how  his  brother  (the  lamented  Benja- 
min) had  been  entrapped,  and  forgave  liim.  It  was  Archy's 
left  hand  that  clasped  Priscilla's  left,  she  sitting  upon  his 
right ;  and  now  his  other  arm  (all  in  the  abandonment  of 
grief)  fell  from  the  top  of  her  chair  and  lodged  near  her 
waist.  Her  right  hand  met  his,  —  not  to  remove  it,  but  to 
draw  it  ever  so  gently  about  her.  At  the  same  time  her 
head,  which  had  been  drooping  so  long,  touched  his  shoul- 
der. Silence,  and  two  deep  breaths.  Very  natural :  he 
had  lost  a  brother,  she  a  husband ;  and  this  was  conso- 
lation. 

"  My  dear  sister,"  said  Archy,  "  you  must  not  let  —  ah 
—  circumstances  trouble  you.  I  have  a  little  property,  — 
enough  to  keep  me  comfortable,  —  and  I  have  put  by  a  ht- 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  179 

tie  to  —  to  —  provide  against  such  a  day  as  this ;  for  I 
always  felt  sure  Benjamin's  projects  would  turn  out  in 
some  such  way ;  and,  you  see,  you  are  not  to  w^ant  for  any- 
thing, Priscilla  —  " 

"  0  dear,  dear  Archy !  bless  you ! "  said  the  widow, 
with  so  much  .emotion  that  tears  were  drawn  right  out  of 
Archy's  eyes.  "  But  it  is  n't  money  I  want !  True,  I  have 
four  children,  —  they  are  friendless  orphans,  —  I  am  poor ; 
but  I  can  work  for  them  with  my  last  breath.  It  is  n't 
money  I  want !  but  sympathy,  —  a  brother's  love,  —  some- 
body to  talk  to  that  knew  him,  —  to  keep  my  heart  from 
breaking  while  my  dear  children  live !  0,  promise  me 
that ! "  She  clung  to  Archy.  He  knew  he  was  a  victim, 
but  he  also  perceived  that  to  be  a  victim  might  be  sweeter 
than  he  had  deemed. 


IV. 


CYRUS. 

At  this  interesting  moment  the  gate  clanged,  a  shuf- 
fling of  shoes  on  the  stoop-floor  followed,  and  Cyrus  Drole 
w^alked  unceremoniously  into  the  room. 

"  I  am  saved ! "  thought  Archy.  But  it  must  be  con- 
fessed he  would  have  preferred  not  to  be  saved  quite  so 
soon.  His  chair,  as  Cyrus  entered,  was  at  least  a  yard  and 
a  half  from  the  widow's,  and  their  hands  looked  perfectly 
innocent  of  contact.  The  hero  of  the  wheelbarrow  might 
have  perceived  that  he  was  expected  to  withdraw  from  the 
sacred  precincts  of  grief;  but  he  coolly  took  a  chair  and 
sat  down,  with  his  hat  on. 

"Everybody  is  askin'  about  Uncle  Archy;  you'd  think 
the  President  had   come  to  town ! "   said  Cyrus,  tipping 


180  ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

back  against  the  wall,  and  setting  his  feet  upon  the  chair- 
round.  *'  But  did  n't  they  all  la'f  when  I  told  about  takin' 
him  for  a  minister,  and  runnin'  him  on  to  the  beds  !  "  And 
Cyrus  chuckled  under  his  hat-brim,  hugging  his  elevated 
knees. 

The  two  votaries  of  grief  heard  these  ill-timed  words  in 
appropriate  solemn  silence.  Nobody  else  appearing  inclined 
to  talk,  Mr.  Drole  "  improved  "  the  occasion.  He  quoted 
popular  remarks  concerning  the  surviving  Mr.  Blossom. 
Elder  Spoon's  daughter  thought  he  walked  "drea'ful  stiff"; 
Miss  Brespin,  the  dressmaker,  declared  that  he  winked  at 
her  as  he  passed  her  window.  Archy  writhed  at  this  sting- 
ing imputation,  but  contented  himself  with  frowning  upon 
Cyrus. 

"  Brother  Archy  don't  want  to  hoar  all  this,  Cyrus," 
interposed  the  serious-faced  Priscilla. 

"Jeff  Jones  said  he  looked  like  a  horned  pout  with  his 
white-bellied  jacket  on  !  "  continued  Cyrus.  "  Cap'in  Fling 
wanted  to  know  if  he  was  an  old  bach ;  an'  when  I  said  he 
was,  says  he,  'I'll  bet  fifty  dollars,'  says  he,  'he'll  man-y 
the  widder  ! '  '  If  he  does,'  says  Old  Cooney,  says  he,  '  he 
won't  look  so  much  as  if  he  'd  just  walked  out  of  a  ban'box 
time  he  's  been  married  a  month,'  says  he.  I  did  n't  say 
nothin',  but  la'ft !  " 

"  Cyrus  Drole  ! "  cried  the  indignant  widow,  "  if  you 
can't  behave  yourself,  you  shall  go  straight  to  bed.  What 
must  Brother  Archy  think  of  your  impudence  ?  " 

"  I  guess  he  '11  think  it 's  natur' !  "  laughed  Cyrus.  "  I 
s  posed  you  would  n't  mind,  bein'  we  're  all  cousins." 

Archy  had  arisen.  He  inquired,  in  some  agitation,  for 
his  hat  and  cane. 

"  Why,  Brother  Archy  !  "  said  Priscilla,  alarmed,  "  where 
are  you  going  1 "  Archy  explained  that  he  had  engaged 
his  lodging  at  the  hotel,  where  his  baggage  remained.     "  I 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  181 

can't  bear  the  thought  of  your  going  back  there  to  sleep  ! " 
And  the  widow's  tearful  eyes  looked  up  pleadingly.  "  Do 
stay  wdth  us  !     Cyrus  shall  go  for  your  carpet-bag  !  " 

Archy  said  something  about  "giving  trouble."  She  re- 
proached him  tenderly.  It  would  be  a  comfort,  she  as- 
sured him,  to  know  that  he  was  beneath  her  roof;  and 
it  would  soothe  her  loneliness  to  remember  the  pathetic 
circumstance  after  he  was  gone. 

*'  I  ain  a  victim  ! "  thought  Archy ;  but  he  could  not 
resist  such  winning  entreaties.  Cyrus  was  despatched  for 
the  carpet-bag.  He  was  absent  not  much  more  than  five 
minutes  ;  and  on  his  return,  placing  the  article  of  luggage 
on  the  table,  he  seated  himself,  tipped  against  the  wall, 
with  his  hat  on,  as  before. 

"  Any  time  you  wish  to  retire,  Brother  Archy,  —  "  sug- 
gested the  widow's  softened  voice. 

Archy  cast  a  scowling  glance  at  Cyrus  (who  appeared 
immovable),  and  replied  that  he  felt  the  need  of  rest  after 
his  long  journey. 

"  Don't  hurry  on  my  account,"  said  Cyrus.  "  I  jest 
as  lives  set  up  and  keep  ye  comp'ny ! " 

Unseduced  by  this  generous  offer,  Archy  took  his 
carpet-bag  and  proceeded,  under  the  widow's  guidance, 
to  the  spare  bedroom.  It  was  a  neat  little  chamber,  with 
a  rag-carpet  on  the  floor,  and  cheap  lithographs  in  cheap 
frames  on  the  "wall.  The  lamp  was  placed  on  the  white- 
spread  stand,  and  the  carpet-bag  on  a  chair.  Archy  gave 
the  widow  his  hand. 

"  Good  night,  sister  !  "  Priscilla  wept.  "  Afflicted  one  !  " 
said  Archy,  drawing  her  near  him.  He  put  down  his  lips  ; 
she  put  up  hers.  At  that  affecting  moment  a  chuckle  was 
heard.     Both  started. 

"  Ye  'fraid  of  muskeeters.  Uncle  Archy  % "  said  Cyrus, 
putting  his  head  in  at  the  door. 


182  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR. 

Archy  had  never  in  his  hfe  felt  so  powerful  an  impulse 
to  fracture  somebody's  cervical  column.  Had  there  been 
a  weapon  at  hand,  Cyrus  would  have  suffered.  As  it  was, 
he  advanced  with  impunity  into  the  room. 

"  'Cause,  ef  you  be,  there 's  some  in  this  room  that  long  !  " 
he  added,  measuring  off  a  piece  of  his  hand.  "Ain't  they, 
FscilU" 

"  Cyrus  Drole  !  there  is  n't  a  mosquito  in  the  house,  and 
you  know  it !  "  exclaimed  the  widow.  "  What  do  you  talk 
so  for?" 

"  They  've  got  some  over  to  the  tavern  bigger  yit,"  said 
Cyrus,  seating  himself  astride  a  chair,  and  resting  his 
arms  on  the  back.  "  They  hitched  six  on  'em  to  a  hand- 
cart t'other  day,  and  they  ripped  it  all  to  flinders  !  " 

"Come,  Cyrus,"  expostulated  the  widow,  "you've  no 
business  here ;  brother  wants  to  go  to  bed." 

"He  won't  mind  me;  I'll  keep  him  comp'ny  till  he 
wants  to  go  to  sleep.  You  need  n't  stop,  if  you  don't 
want  to  ! " 

Thereupon  the  widow  hastily  withdrew,  calling  upon 
him  to  follow.  Cyrus  rocked  to  and  fro,  in  his  reversed 
position,  appearing  perfectly  and  entirely  at  home.  Archy 
regarded  him  sternly. 

"What  d'ye  haf  to  pay  for  them  kind  o'  boots'?"  asked 
CyruB.  "  Pegged  or  sewed  ?  hey  1 "  No  reply.  "  Psho  ! 
what  's  the  matter  %  You  look  as  though  you  'd  forgot 
suth'n' ! " 

"Young  man,"  said  Archy,  loftily,  "will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  postpone  the  entertainment  of  your  personal 
presence  and  conversation  to  some  remote  future  period  1 
In  other  words,  will  you  oblige  me  by  leaving  this  room  1 " 

"Don't  feel  like  talkin',  heyl  Wal,  I  d'n'  know  but  I 
will,  seein'  it 's  you  !  "  Cyrus,  rising  deliberately,  knocked 
over  his  chair,  set  it  up  again,  and  walked  slowly  to  the 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  183 

door.     "  I  forgot  what  you  said  you  give  for  them  boots  ? 
Oh  !   you  're  in  a  hurry,  be  ye  *? " 

Seeing  Archy  advancing  upon  him  with  a  somewhat 
ferocious  look,  he  quickened  his  step,  and  with  a  grin  of 
insolent  good-nature  dodged  out  of  the  room. 


A.    B.    BECOMES    A   VICTIM. 

Archt  shut  the  door,  and  placed  two  chairs  against  it, 
—  there  being  no  lock,  —  pulled  off  the  said  boots,  hung 
his  wig  on  the  bedpost,  and  in  due  time  retiring,  thought 
of  the  widow,  and  called  himself  a  victim,  until  he  fell 
asleep ;  when  he  dreamed  that  he  was  wedded  to  a  spectre, 
in  soiled  shirt-sleeves  and  patched  trousers,  and  had  nine 
children,  all  of  whom  were  born  with  little  wheelbarrows 
in  their  hands. 

He  was  awakened  by  shouts  of  childish  laughter.  He 
thought  of  his  dream,  rubbed  his  eyes,  recognized  his  wig 
on  the  bedpost,  and  remembered  where  he  was.  The 
laughter  proceeded  from  an  adjoining  room,  where  the 
little  Blossoms  slept.  Archy  took  his  watch  from  beneath 
the  pillow,  and  discovered  that  he  had  been  robbed  of  his 
rest  three  hours  earlier  than  his  usual  time  for  rising. 

"  I  'm  always  being  a  victim  ! "  he  said,  with  a  j^awni. 
*'  But  I  suppose  it 's  the  custom  in  the  country  to  get  up 
at  five.     It  will  be  such  a  novelty,  I  '11  try  it  for  once." 

So  Archy  arose,  dressed,  put  on  his  hat,  found  his 
gold-headed  cane  (with  the  marks  of  Cyrus's  soapy  fingers 
on  it),  and  went  out  to  walk.  There  was  a  freshness  and 
beauty  in  nature  which  afforded  him  an  agreeable  surprise. 


184  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR. 

"Really,  and  upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  "I  had  quite 
forgotten  that  mornings  in  the  country  were  so  fine  !  One 
might  enjoy  an  experience  of  this  kind  once  or  twice  a 
year  very  well  indeed." 

Priscilla  was  occupied  in  dressing  the  children  when 
he  went  out.  On  his  return  she  was  preparing  breakfast. 
He  was  curious  to  see  how  she  would  look  by  daylight ; 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  slight  agitation  as  he  entered 
the  room.  Her  occupation,  together  with  the  heat  of  the 
kitchen  stove,  had  given  her  a  beautiful  color;  and  the 
tear  and  smile  with  which  she  greeted  him  completed  the 
charm.  Thus  the  day  began.  Archy,  who  had  intended 
to  return  on  the  first  train  to  town,  stayed  until  the  after- 
noon. He  then  found  it  impossible  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to 
the  widow's  entreaties,  who  urged  him  to  remain  another 
night  beneath  her  roof.  He  delayed  his  departure  an- 
other day,  and  still  another  night ;  and  ended  by  spending 
a  week  with  the  widow,  Cyrus,  and  the  children,  —  a  week 
whos9  history  would  fill  a  volume.  What  we  have  not 
space  to  detail  here  the  reader's  imagination  —  it  must  be 
vivid  —  will  supply. 

At  last  the  bachelor  returned  to  town.  He  had  long 
wished  to  go,  and  wished  not  to  go.  His  experiences  had 
been  both  sweet  and  terrible ;  and  to  depart  was  as  excru- 
ciating as  to  remain.  In  tearing  himself  away  he  left 
behind  a  lacerated  heart,  which  Mrs.  Priscilla  Blossom 
retained,  and  in  return  for  which  she  sent  him  letters  full 
of  affection  and  bad  spelling.  It  is  singular  how  soon 
a  tender  interest  in  persons  invests  even  their  faults  with 
a  certain  charm.  Not  a  month  had  elapsed  before  Archy 
had  learned  to  love  those  innocent  little  errors  of  orthog- 
raphy and  construction  as  dearly  as  if  the  i's  she  neg- 
lected to  dot  were  the  very  eyes  which  he  had  so  often 
seen  weep  and  smile. 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  185 

"  Really,  and  upon  my  soul,"  said  Archy,  one  morning, 
after  kissing  her  letter  at  least  twice  for  every  precious 
error  it  contained,  "  she  is  a  delightful  creature ;  and,  by 
Jove,  I  'd  marry  her  —  I  would,  truly  —  if — if "  it  wasn't 
for  being  a  victim  ! " 

A  strange  unrest  —  to  use  a  perfectly  unhackneyed 
expression  —  agitated  his  once  placid  bosom.  Appetite 
and  flesh  forsook  him;  his  landlady  observed  that  her 
bountiful  repasts  no  longer  filled  him;  his  tailor,  that 
he  no  longer  filled  his  clothes.  His  friends  shook  their 
heads  and  said,  "The  Blossom  has  been  nipped  by  un- 
timely frost ! " 

At  length,  yielding  to  destiny,  he  again  disappeared 
mysteriously  from  town.  It  is  supposed  that  he  visited 
Priscilla.  He  was  absent  a  week.  He  returned,  bearing 
a  still  larger  burden  of  unrest  than  he  had  carried  away. 
In  short  —  to  sum  up  the  tragical  result  in  one  word  — 
Archy  was  a  victim,  and  he  knew  it ! 

How  it  all  happened,  poor  Archy  could  never  tell ;  and 
if  he  could  not,  how  can  his  biographer  1  As  early  as  the 
middle  of  October  he  had  ^Titten  to  Priscilla  irrevocable 
words,  ordered  a  w^edding  suit  of  his  tailor,  bought  a  new 
wig,  and  purchased  a  trunkful  of  presents  for  his  future 
wife  and  children.  The  11th  of  November  was  fixed 
for  the  fatal  event.  On  the  night  of  the  9th  he  slept 
not  at  all,  but  filled  the  hours  w^ith  wakefulness  and  sighs. 
"  0  Benjamin,"  he  said,  "  if  you  had  only  Hved  !  I  wdsh 
I  had  never  gone  up  there  !  But  it  is  too  late  to  retract ! 
It  would  break  poor  dear  Priscilla's  heart !  I  am  quite 
sure  she  would  die  of  grief!  I  must  go  through  with  it 
now,  —  I  see  no  other  way  !  "  Mrs.  Brown  w^ondered  what 
made  her  lodger  groan  so  in  his  sleep. 

On  the  other  hand,  Archy  endeavored  to  console  him- 
self by  reasoning  thus  :    "It  was  n't  in  human  nature  to 


186  ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

resist,  —  she  is  such  a  charming  woman  !  Besides,  I  was 
only  doing  my  duty.  I  should  have  the  family  to  support 
any  way.  I  can  keep  them  in  the  country,  and  spend  as 
much  tinie  in  town  as  I  choose.  I  shall  probably  spend 
all  my  time  in  town,  wdth  the  exception  of  now  and  then 
a  few  days  in  summer.  Though  really,  and  upon  my  soul, 
if  it  was  n't  for  Cyrus  and  the  children  I  think  I  could  be 
very  happy  wdth  Priscilla." 

He  sank  into  a  half-conscious  state,  and  fancied  himself 
pursuing  a  wild,  sweet,  dangerous  road,  with  two  figures 
whirling  in  a  dance  before  him,  one  beautiful  and  bright, 
but  nearly  enveloped  in  the  other's  black,  voluminous 
robes.  One  was  Happiness,  the  other  Misery;  and  so 
they  led  him  on,  until  the  former  quite  disappeared,  and 
the  latter,  grim,  inexorable,  whirled  alone.  He  awoke 
with  a  start  just  as  the  hideous  creature  reached  forth  a 
skeleton  hand  to  claim  him  as  a  partner ;  and  once  more 
Mrs.  Brown  wondered  what  made  her  lodger  groan  in 
his  sleep. 

Archy  was  expected  on  the  afternoon  of  the  10th,  and 
Cyrus  was  at  the  railroad  station  to  meet  him  when  the 
train  came  in.  The  surviving  brother  felt  not  only  like  a 
victim,  but  also  very  much  like  a  culprit,  when  he  stepped 
from  the  cars,  a  spectacle  to  the  group  of  loungers. 

"  Haryunclarchy  *? "  (that  is,  "  I^ow  are  you.  Uncle 
Archy  1")  cried  Cyrus,  familiarly  advancing  to  shake 
hands.  "  Got  along,  have  ye  ?  Fscill  's  been  drea'ful 
'fraid  you  would  n't  come."  A  broad  grin  from  Mr.  Drole. 
Laughter  and  significant  looks  from  the  crowd.  Embar- 
rassment on  the  part  of  Mr.  Blossom. 

"Where's  the  carriage T'  whispered  the  future  bride- 
groom, who,  anticipating  this  scene,  had  directed  that  a 
decent  conveyance  should  be  in  waiting  for  him  on  his 
arrival. 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  187 

"  Could  n't  git  no  kind  of  a  one,"  said  Cyrus,  in  a  loud 
tone  of  voice.  "  Jinkins  's  usin'  hisn ;  Alvord's  boss  's  lame ; 
Hillick,  that  keeps  the  tavern,  had  let  hisn;  I  told  'em 
you  was  comin',  and  I  did  n't  know  what  I  should  do ;  but 
not  a  darned  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  carriage  could  I  scare 
up.  So  I  concluded  you  could  walk  over  to  the  house,  — 
guess  you  ha'n't  quite  forgot  the  way ;  and  I  've  brought 
my  wheelbarrer  for  youi*  trunks." 

"  Always  a  victim ! "  muttered  Archy,  red  and  perspir- 
ing, perhaps  at  the  recollection  of  his  first  adventure  with 
the  wheelbarrow.  He  would  have  given  worlds  —  as  the 
romance  writers  say  —  had  he  never  set  foot  in  the  vil- 
lage. But  retrogression  was  now  impossible.  He  hastily 
pointed  out  his  baggage  with  his  gold-headed  cane,  and 
walked  up  the  street.  He  had  not  proceeded  twenty 
yards  when  Cyrus  came  after  him,  running  his  wheel- 
barrow on  the  walk,  and  shouting  to  the  retiring  loungers 
to  "clear  the  track."  He  pushed  his  load  of  trunks  to 
Archy's  heels,  and  there  he  kept  it,  •  occasionally  grazing 
his  calves  with  the  wheel,  until  the  exasperated  bride- 
groom stepped  aside  and  stopped. 
.  "  Go  on  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Never  mind ;  I  a'n't  pa'tic'lar  ! "  replied  Cyrus,  set- 
ting the  wheelbarrow  down,  and  spitting  on  his  hands. 
"  I  jest  as  lives  you  'd  go  ahead.  Whew !  makes  me 
blow  ! " 

Archy  raised  his  cane,  but  forebore  exercising  it  upon 
the  young  gentleman's  back  (as  justice  seemed  to  require) 
in  consequence  of  the  publicity  of  the  scene.  He  walked 
on.  The  wheelbarrow  followed,  again  at  his  heels.  And 
thus  the  bridegroom  traversed  the  village,  the  head  of  a 
procession  which  caused  a  general  expansion  of  risible 
muscles  and  a  compression  of  noses  upon  window-panes 
as  it  passed. 


188  ARCHIBALD   DLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

"  By  the  furies !  "  thought  Archy,  ''  I  can't  go  through 
with  it !  I  '11  put  a  stop  to  the  insane  proceeding  at 
once  !  I  '11  make  some  excuse ;  I  '11  say  I  've  heard  from 
California  and  Benjamin  is  n't  dead.  That  would  n't  do, 
though ;  Priscilla  's  had  a  letter  from  the  friend  who 
received  his  parting  breath.  I  '11  tell  her  —  I  'U  tell  her 
I  've  got  another  wife.  Then  she  '11  reproach  me,  and 
what  shall  I  say  1  Say  I  thought  my  wife  was  dead,  but 
she  's  turned  up  again  !  That  won't  do,  though,  —  I 
can't  he." 

"  Look  out  for  yer  legs ! "  cried  Cyrus.  They  had 
passed  the  gate.  Archy  was  met  by  Mrs.  Blossom  and 
four  little  Blossoms,  soon  to  be  all  his  own.  Priscilla 
clung  to  his  neck,  Benjie  to  his  hand,  Phidie  to  his  coat- 
tails,  leaving  the  lesser  Blossoms  each  a  leg. 

"  I  am  doomed  !  "  thought  Archy.  He  assumed  a  gay- 
ety,  though  he  felt  it  not ;  opened  his  heart  and  his  trunk ; 
distributed  presents ;  received  a  good  many  more  thanks 
and  kisses  than  he -wanted;  withdrew  to  the  solitude  of 
his  chamber;  conferred  with  Priscilla,  who  followed  him 
thither,  and  whom  he  found,  after  all  his  doubts  and  de- 
spair, to  be  the  dearest  and  best  of  women. 

He  came  out  brighter  than  he  had  gone  in ;  taking  his 
seat  at  the  tea-table  with  Blossoms  three  and  four  on  each 
side  and  Priscilla  opposite.  The  children  had  quarrelled 
to  sit  next  their  uncle,  and  that  rare  indulgence  had  been 
granted  to  the  yoimgest  two.  Little  Archy  was  barefoot, 
and  he  persisted  in  rubbing  his  toes  against  big  Archy's 
trousers.  Little  Cilly  (Blossom  number  four)  sprinkled 
him  with  crumbs,  buttered  his  coat-sleeve,  and  tipped 
over  his  teacup.  Archy  (the  uncle)  was  beginning  to 
have  very  much  the  air  of  a  parent. 

The  presents  had  so  much  excited  the  children  that  the 
house  that  evening  was  a  perfect  little  Babel.      "  And  this 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR.  189 

is  the  family  I  am  going  to  marry  ! "  groaned  poor  Archy, 
Cyrus  was  practising  upon  a  new  fiddle,  in  the  kitchen, 
and  nothing  could  silence  his  horrible  discords.  The 
domestic  —  a  recent  addition  to  Mrs.  Blossom's  establish- 
ment —  let  fall  a  pile  of  dishes,  deluging  the  threshold 
with  fragments.  Benjie  upset  the  table  with  a  lamp  and 
pitcher,  which  saturated  •  the  carpet  with  oil  and  water. 
Phidie  and  Archy  quarrelled,  and  cried  an  hour  after  they 
had  gone  to  bed.  Number  four  was  sick,  in  consequence 
of  eating  too  much  of  Uncle  Archy's  candy,  and  had  to 
be  doctored.  Priscilla  was  harassed  and  —  shall  we  con- 
fess it  1  —  cross.  Add  to  the  picture  the  melancholy  col- 
oring of  the  season,  —  imagine  the  dreary  whistling  of  the 
November  wind,  and  the  rattling  of  dry  leaves  and  naked 
boughs,  —  and  you  have  some  notion  of  a  nice,  comfort- 
loving  old  bachelor's  reasons  for  homesickness. 

Archy  retired  to  his  room.  ''  I  can't  go  through  with 
it !  It 's  no  use  !  I  '11  break  it  to  Priscilla  —  gradualh^  — 
but  I  'm  resolved  to  do  it  !  Suppose  I  make  believe 
I  'm  insane,  and  tear  things  1  Insane  !  I  've  been  insane  ! 
0  Benjamin  —  " 

Rap,  rap  !  gently,  at  the  door.  "  There  she  is  !  "  said 
Archy.  "  Now,  Blossom,  be  a  man  !  "  He  opened  ;  Pris- 
cilla entered.  She  observed  his  excited  mien  with  a  look 
of  alarm. 

"  Dear  Archy  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

What  a  wonderful  influence  there  is  in  woman's  eyes,  a 
ripe  lip  reaching  up  to  you,  and  an  arm  about  your  neck  ! 
Archy  was  afraid  he  was  going  to  be  shaken. 

"  Priscilla  !  "  he  said,  with  a  tragic  air,  "  I  Ve  had  a 
horrid  thought !  Suppose  —  suppose  Benjamin  should 
still  be  alive  !  and  should  come  home  !  and  find  me  —  me 
—  a  usurper  of  his  happiness  !  " 

"  0  Archy  !  "  articulated  Priscilla,  with  strong  symptoms 
of  fiiinting,  "  spare  me  !  spare  me  !  " 


190  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR. 

"  Of  course  it  is  n't  reasonable  to  suppose  such  a  thing, 
■ —  but,"  stammered  Archj,  "  is  n't  our  marriage  hasty, 
—  premature  ?  Not  six  months  after  the  news  of  hi.i 
death,  —  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  then  been  dead  four 
months,  and  that  makes  ten.  But  would  n't  it,  after  all, 
be  wise  to  postpone  our  bliss,  —  say  till  spring  1 " 

"  If  you  leave  me,"  said  Priscilla,  "  I  shall  die  !  "  She 
closed  her  eyes,  drooping  tremulously  in  his  arms;  and 
the  scene  would  have  been  very  romantic  indeed  but  for 
the  plumpness  of  her  figure  and  the  laws  of  gravitation, 
Avhich  united  in  compelling  him  to  ease  her  down  upon 
a  chair.    "  But  go  !  "  she  added,  ''  go  !  you  do  not  love  me  !  " 

"  Keally,  and  upon  my  soul,  I  do  !  "  vowed  Archy, 
greatly  moved.      "  Priscilla,   I  adore  you  !  " 

"  Then  don't  —  don't  break  my  heart  !  " 

His  resolution  was  melted ;  he  saw  that  either  Priscilla 
or  himself  must  be  a  victim.  "  I  '11  be  one  myself,"  he 
thought ;  "  I  'm  used  to  it !  "  And  he  said  no  more  of 
postponing  their  conjugal  felicity. 

We  read  of  prisoners  sleeping  soundly  on  the  eve  of 
their  execution.  So  Archy  slept  that  night.  The  wed- 
ding was  appointed  for  the  next  morning.  The  bride- 
groom awoke  at  half  past  six.  It  was  cold  and  rainy.  He 
looked  out  upon  the  dismallest  scene,  —  dark  and  dreary 
hills,  a  deserted  street,  dripping  and  shivering  trees,  dead 
leaves  rotting  upon  the  ground. 

"I  have  brought  my  razor  with  me,"  said  Archy; 
"  really,  and  upon  my  soul,  I  think  the  best  thing  I  can 
do  is  to  cut  off  the  wretched  thread  of  my  existence, 
just  under  the  chin  !  " 

Already  the  children  were  laughing  and  screaming  in 
the  next  room,  and  Cyrus's  fiddle  squeaked  in  the  kitchen. 
Archy  got  uji,  took  his  razor,  deliberately  honed  it,  uncov- 
ered his  throat,  and  —  with  a  firm  hand  — shaved  himself. 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.        191 

VI. 

THE   WEDDING    DAT,    AND    WHAT    FOLLOWED. 

The  marriage  ceremony  was  to  take  place  at  nine 
o'clock,  without  display;  only  the  clergyman  and  two 
other  witnesses  were  to  be  present,  and  the  happy  pair 
were  to  take  the  cars  at  ten  for  a  little  journey.  Two 
bridesmaids  came  in  the  rain,  at  eight  o'clock,  to  dress  the 
bride.  She  had  already  put  upon  the  children  their  neat- 
est attire,  charging  them  to  remain  in  the  house,  and  keep 
themselves  dry  and  clean.  The  arrival  of  the  clergyman 
was  prompt.  Nine  o'clock  struck,  —  a  knell  to  Archy  s 
heart.  At  the  fatal  moment  he  appeared ;  he  was  hand- 
somely dressed  ;  he  was  pale,  but  firm.  No  martyr  ever 
approached  the  stake  with  greater  fortitude  than  he  dis- 
played on  standing  up  beside  Priscilla,  in  the  little  parlor, 
with  the  clergyman  facing  them  and  the  witnesses  waiting. 

At  this  critical  moment,  Cyrus,  who  had  gone  to  secure 
a  conveyance  for  the  wedding  party,  rushed  into  the  room. 

"  You,  sir,"  said  the  clergyman,  addressing  Archy,  "  sol- 
emnly promise  to  take  this  woman  —  " 

"Guess  you  better  wait  half  a  jiffy  !  "  cried  Cyrus,  flirt- 
ing tiis  wet  cap. 

"  To  be  your  lawful  wife,"  added  the  clergyman. 

"  Somebody  else  to  come,"  added  Cyrus  j  "  he  's  'most 
here ;  I  run  ahead  to  tell  ye  to  stop." 

"  Hush,  Cyrus  !  "  whispered  the  bride. 

"  To  love,  honor,  and  obey,"  said  the  clergyman,  grow- 
ing confused,  "  until  death  do  you  part  —  " 

"  He  'd  jest  come  in  on  the  cars,"  interpolated  Cyrus. 

"Promise,"  said  the  clergyman  to  Archy,  w^ho  stood 
staring. 


192  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,   BACHELOR. 

"  To  obey  ] "  faltered  Archj. 

"  Did  I  say  obey  1     No  matter  ;  it 's  a  mere  form  —  " 

"  I  guess  he  's  from  Caleforny  ! "  cried  Cyrus ;  "  meb- 
by  's  he  's  got  news." 

"  From  California ! "  uttered  Archy,  with  a  gleam  of 
hope.  "  Wait ;  what  does  the  fellow  mean  1  Who  —  where 
is  this  man  1 " 

"I  d'n'  know;  I  never  saw  him  afore;  but  here  he 
comes  !  "  said'  Cyrus.  The  rascal  grinned.  Priscilla  looked 
wild  and  distressed.  Archy  believed  it  was  one  of  Cyrus's 
miserable  jokes,  but  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

**  Shall  I  i^roceed]"  inquired  the  clergyman,  who  had 
quite  forgotten  where  he  left  off.  The  gate  had  previously 
clanged ;  doors  had  been  opened ;  and  now,  to  the  aston- 
ishment of  all,  a  stranger  put  his  head  into  the  room. 
He  wore  a  Spanish  sombrero,  a  shaggy  coat,  and  an  im- 
mense red  beard.  As  all  turned  to  look  at  him,  he  ad- 
vanced into  the  room. 

"  Stranger  ! "  cried  the  excited  Archy,  "  who  —  how  — 
why  this  interruption  ?  " 

^'What  is  going  onl"  asked  the  Californian,  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice. 

"Nothing  —  only  —  getting  married  a  little,"  replied 
Archy,  excited  more  and  more.  "  You  are  w  elcome,  sir, 
welcome  !  but  if  you  have  no  business  —  " 

"  I  have  business  ! "  The  intruder  removed  his  wet 
sombrero.      "  Priscilla  !  Archibald  !  " 

"Benjamin  !"  ejaculated  Archy,  springing  forward  upon 
the  clergyman's  corns. 

"My  husband  !  "  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  bride  ;  and 
she  threw  up  her  arms,  swooning  in  the  traveller's  damp 
embrace.  Archy,  quite  beside  himself,  ran  over  the  chil- 
dren, and  flung  his  arms  frantically  about  the  reunited 
pair. 


C***  C«c* 


ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  103 

"I  be  darned,"  said  C^tus,  flinging  his  cap  into  the 
corner,   "if  't  a' n't  Ben  Blossom  come  to  life  agin  ! " 

"Just  stand  off,"  cried  Benjamin,  sternly,  "till  we  have 
this  matter  a  little  better  understood." 

"  I  don't  object,"  replied  Archy,  brushing  himself,  "  for, 
really,  and  upon  my  soul,  you  are  very  wet !" 

Priscilla  was  restored  to  consciousness  (which,  if  the 
truth  must  be  confessed,  she  had  not  lost  at  all),  expla- 
nations were  made,  and  the  husband's  ire  appeased.  He, 
on  his  part,  maintained  that  he  had  not  been  dead  at  all  : 
that  the  treacherous  friend  who  reported  him  so  had  in- 
deed deserted  him  when  he  was  in  an  extremely  feeble 
condition  at  "the  mines,  leaving  him  to  perish  alone,  of 
sickness  and  want,  in  the  dismal  rainy  season ;  that  he 
(Mr.  Blossom)  had  lived,  so  to  speak,  out  of  spite,  finding 
shelter  in  a  squatter's  hut,  digging  a  little  for  gold,  re- 
turning to  the  seaboard,  crossing  the  Isthmus,  and  finally 
reaching  home  (with  less  than  half  the  money  he  had  car- 
ried away)  sooner  than  any  letter,  mailed  at  the  earliest 
opportunity,  could  have  arrived.  He  seemed  rejoiced  to 
get  back  again ;  kissed  the  children ;  shook  hands  with 
the  neighbors ;  and,  finally,  supporting  his  wife  upon  one 
arm,  while  he  gave  Archy  a  fraternal  embrace  with  the 
other,  frankly  forgave  them  the  little  matrimonial  proceed- 
ing we  have  described. 

The  truth  is,  Priscilla  had  expressed  her  joy  at  his  re- 
turn with  a  spontaneity  and  emphasis  which  left  no  doubt 
of  her  sincerity.  Archy  felt  one  pang  of  jealous}^  at  this  ; 
but  it  was  evident  enough  that  his  satisfaction  at  seeing 
Benjamin  was  unfeigned. 

"  We  are  brother  and  sister  again  now,  Archy  1 "  said 
Priscilla,  offering  him  her  hand. 

"  We  are  nothing  else,  I  am  happy  to  say !  "  replied 
Archy,  overflowing  with  good  humor. 

9  M 


194  ARCHIBALD   BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR. 

"I  must  beg  your  pardon,  Archy,"  said  Ben,  ''for  tak- 
ing away  your  bride." 

"Really,  and  upon  my  soul,"  cried  Archy,  magnani- 
mously, "I  relinquish  her  —  under  the  circumstances  — 
with  joy !  Take  back  your  family,  Ben  !  Here  are  the 
children,  good  as  new.  I  give  'em  up  without  a  murmur. 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  wish  to  rob  my  brother  of 
his  treasures  ! "     Archy's  self-denial  was  beautiful. 

"S'pos'n'  —  s'pos'nV'  giggled  Cyrus,  "he  hadn't  come 
till  to-morrer,  an'  found  there  'd  been  a  weddin'  !  an'  no- 
body but  me  an'  the  children  left  to  hum  ! " 

This  ill-timed  speech  proved  very  unpopular,  and  Cyrus 
was  hustled  out  of  the  room.  The  wedding  having  failed 
to  take  place,  there  was  no  wedding  tour. 

Archy  remained,  and  made  a  visit  at  his  brother's ;  ex- 
periencing unaccountable  sensations  upon  witnessing  the 
unbounded  happiness  of  Priscilla.  How  she  could  so  easily 
give  up  a  well-dressed  gentleman  like  himself  (after  all 
her  professions,  too !)  and  show  such  preference  for  a 
rough,  bearded,  unkempt,  half-savage  Californian,  puzzled 
his  iDhilosophy.  The  sight  became  imendurable.  So  that 
afternoon  he  packed  up  his  luggage  and  took  leave  of  the 
happy  family,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  all  their  entreaties, 
and  setting  out,  under  painful  circumstances  and  a  dilapi- 
dated umbrella,  to  walk  to  the  cars.  Cyrus  accompanied 
him,  transporting  his  trunks  upon  the  celebrated  wheel- 
barrow. At  the  station  Mr.  Drole  brought  Archy  the 
checks  for  his  baggage,  and  gave  him  his  good-by,  together 
with  a  little  tribute  of  sympathy. 

"  I  swanny,"  said  Cyrus,  "  't  was  too  bad  anyhow  you 
can  fix  it !  But  I  would  n't  give  up  so ;  mebby  you  '11 
have  better  luck  next  time." 

"  Always  a  victim  ! "  muttered  Archy,  taking  his  seat  in 
the  cars.      Cyrus  got  upon  his  wheelbarrow,  and  wdiistled 


ARCHIBALD  BLOSSOM,  BACHELOR.  195 

*'  Try,  try  again  !  "  playing  an  imaginary  fiddle  over  his 
arm.  The  bachelor  (still  a  bachelor)  thanked  Heaven 
when  the  cars  started,  and  so  returned  to  his  elegant 
single  lodgings  in  town. 

But  he  was  no  longer  the  cheerful,  contented  bachelor 
of  other  times.  An  affectionate  letter  from  Mrs.  Blossom, 
in  which  she  hoped  he  would  find  another  widdow  (with 
two  crs),  and  be  hapy  (with  one  p),  served  only  to  keep 
alive  the  fires  that  had  been  kindled  in  his  once  cool 
breast.  He  began  to  seek  female  society ;  grew  studious 
of  fair  faces;  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  his  friends, 
within  a  year  both  Priscilla's  wish  and  Cyrus's  prediction 
touching  better  luck  were  realized.  Archy  had  found  an- 
other widow ;  who,  although  perhaps  not  quite  so  charm- 
ing a  creature  as  she  who  had  first  aroused  him  from 
apathetic  celibacy,  proved,  nevertheless,  quite  as  sincere  a 
woman,  as  true  a  wife,  and  as  devoted  a  mother  of  her 
little  Blossoms.  They  occupy  a  handsome  little  cottage  a 
few  miles  out  of  town ;  where  the  late  bachelor,  iiow  the 
blessed  husband  ard  father,  finds  wedded  life  so  entirely 
to  his  liking,  that  he  often  assures  Mrs.  Blossom  that  really, 
and  upon  his  soul,  the  most  fortunate  day  of  his  life  was 
when  she  made  him  a  victim. 


IF  THE  lOE. 


WHAT   MIGHT   HAVE   BEEN    A    GOLDEN    WEDDING. 

OLD  ladj  Dracutt,  bent  with  years  and  trouble,  in 
black  cloak  and  hood,  walked  home  from  meeting, 
with  slow  steps,  leaning  on  her  cane.  Old  man  Dracutt 
followed  her  from  the  porch,  took  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  passed  her  on  the  way,  opened  the  gate  before  her, 
and  let  it  slam  back,  almost  in  her  face,  as  she  came  up. 

This  little  scene,  or  something  like  it,  happened  nearly 
every  Sunday  in  their  lives,  and  the  observant  world 
was  getting  used  to  it.  Elderly  people,  watching  it  now 
for  twenty  years  or  more,  had  learned  to  look  on  and  make 
no  other  comment  than,  "Well,  it's  just  like  old  man 
Dracutt "  (or  old  lady  Dracutt,  as  the  case  might  be) ; 
"they're  crotchety,  and  what 's  the  use  of  talking]" 

Not  so  the  younger  portion  of  the  community,  repre- 
sented on  this  occasion  by  Miss  Emma  Welford,  who,  pass- 
ing with  her  httle  flock  of  brothers  and  sisters,  — just  as  the 
old  ploughshare,  sagging  on  its  short  chain  fastened  to  a 
stake,  jerked  the  gate  violently  together  again,  —  said  com- 
passionately, "  Why  could  n't  he  have  had  the  kindness  to 
hold  it  open  till  she  had  gone  through  1 "  While  even  the 
hard-featured  ploughshare  seemed,  in  her  pure  eyes,  to  look 
ashamed  of  its  part  in  the  transaction. 

Old  man  Dracutt,  not  bent  at  all  by  his  troubles  (lie  ap- 


IN  THE  ICE.  197 

peared  to  bear  the  burden  of  life  on  his  head,  and  to  have 
been  crushed  together  by  it  considerably  in  the  jaws  and 
shoulders,  getting  thereby  that  stubborn  build  of  body 
and  set  expression  of  face),  —  old  man  Dracutt  trudged  on, 
and  disappeared  in  the  lonely  old  house,  while  his  wife  was 
still  feebly  fumbling  with  the  gate.  Ah  me  !  how  little  we 
know  what  the  effect  of  a  casual  kind  look  or  word  of  ours 
may  be  sometimes "?  Old  lady  Dracutt  took  hold  of  the 
post  instead  of  the  gate,  and  tried  to  pull  it  open  that 
way,  —  very  absurdly,  to  be  sure,  but  you  would  hardly 
have  laughed  at  her  if  you  had  seen  the  cause.  The  poor 
old  creature  was  blind  with  tears.  The  great  sorrow  of 
her  life  had  never  given  her  a  moist  eye ;  she  was  proud, 
and  strong,  and  obstinate  to  endure  misery  and  wrong; 
that  tough,  dry  stock  unkindness  could  bend  and  wither, 
but  not  soften  or  break  ;  and  yet  a  compassionating  glance 
out  of  a  young  girl's  eyes,  the  pitying  tones  of  a  sweet 
voice,  could  melt  her  in  an  instant. 

She  got  the  gate  open  soon,  with  Emma's  help,  ("  Thank 
you,  dear  child,"  said  she,)  and  entered  the  house,  where 
she  found  her  husband  settling  down  in  his  low,  square, 
straight-backed,  old  oak  arm-chair,  by  the  kitchen  stove. 
A  newspaper  rustled  on  his  trembling  knees,  while  he 
took  from  a  black  leathern  case  a  pair  of  steel-bowed  spec- 
tacles, and  set  them  astride  his  nose,  which  also  appeared 
to  have  been  crushed  a  little,  and  pushed  well  down  over 
his  broad  mouth  and  chin  by  the  aforesaid  burden. 

She  put  away  her  cloak  and  hood  in  a  dark  closet  (from 
which  they  seldom  emerged,  except  for  Sundays  and  funer- 
als, when  they  came  out  saturated  with  gloom,  and  almost 
conscious,  it  seemed,  of  the  solemn  use  they  served),  and 
presently  sat  down  in  her  chair  (neither  had  ever,  probably, 
for  years,  sat  in  the  other's  chair),  with  an  ancient,  sallow- 
leaved,   well-worn  Bible  on  her  lap.     Both  clad  in  rusty 


198  IN  THE  ICE. 

black;  he  so  compressed  and  grim,  and  she  so  crooked 
and  withered ;  he  with  bald  crown  shining  in  the  light, 
over  shaggy  gi'ay  ear-locks  ;  she  with  iron-gray  hair  (once 
black  tresses)  hidden  under  her  cap  of  yellow  lace, — 
there  they  sat,  and  warmed  their  bodies,  if  not  their 
hearts,  by  the  stove  between  them;  neither  ever  looking 
at  the  other,  nor  ever  speaking  more  than  if  each  had 
been  alone. 

And  each  was  alone ;  for  what  is  bodily  presence  where 
souls  are  estranged  1  This  was  the  anniversary  of  their 
marriage  ;  did  they  think  of  it  1  For  half  a  century  they 
had  lived  together,  and  to-day  they  might  have  celebrated 
their  golden  wedding. 

Fifty  years  ago  this  December  evening,  full  of  youth 
and  hope  and  love,  they  joined  their  hands,  with  trust  and 
solemn  vows,  and  began  the  journey  of  life,  which  looked 
so  beautiful  before  them.  The  storm  and  rainbow  of  a 
real  little  romance  had  given  interest  to  their  courtship 
and  marriage.  Jonathan  had  been  off  teaching  school 
somewhere,  and  on  his  return  had  found  his  darling  little 
Jane  engaged  to  be  married.  They  had  always  been 
attached  to  each  other  from  their  early  childhood,  when 
they  played  little  husband  and  wife,  and  kept  house  to- 
gether, with  clam-shells  for  dishes,  and  acorns  for  cups  and 
saucers,  under  a  board,  laid  across  a  corner  of  the  garden 
fence,  for  a  house.  Growing  bashful  as  they  gTew  older, 
that  sweet  play  ceased ;  but  at  school  they  dressed  and 
behaved  each  for  the  eyes  of  the  other,  and  were  always 
the  best  of  friends,  except  that  their  frequent  causeless 
quarrels  showed  that  there  was  something  warmer,  per- 
haps, than  friendship  in  their  attachment.  He  was  stern, 
exacting,  and  reticent ;  she  was  pert  and  wayward  and 
pouting ;  and  so  it  happened  that  they  never  came  to  a 
perfect  understanding  about  the  future,  until  he  returned 


IN  THE  ICE.  199 

home,  and  found  her  just  going  to  many  her  big  cousin 
Jim.  Ah  !  !hen  what  a  time  they  had  of  it !  what  sleep- 
less nights,  what  haggard  days,  what  torments  of  passion 
and  despair  !  He  learned,  when  about  to  lose  her  forever, 
that  he  could  not  possibly  live  without  her ;  that  the 
sight  of  the  sky  and  the  earth  would  not  be  endurable  to 
him  for  a  day,  when  all  hope  of  her  was  gone.  And  being 
a  fellow  of  tremendous  will  when  aroused,  you  may  be 
sure  he  did  not  sit  down  and  sulk  over  his  sorrow.  Be- 
coming suddenly  convinced  that  it  w^as  a  terrible  sin  for 
cousins  to  intermarry,  —  though  he  had  seen  cousins  do  so 
before,  and  had  not  thought  of  the  sin  at  all  (a  personal 
interest  in  such  questions  sometimes  makes  a  man  awfully 
moral  in  his  feelings  all  at  once),  —  he  determined  to  save 
her  from  its  commission,  and  himself,  at  the  same  time, 
from  life-long  misery ;  and  set  to  work,  in  that  matter  of 
life  and  death,  with  characteristic  energy.  And  she  — 
why,  she  had  never  discovered  he  cared  so  much  for  her ; 
why  had  n't  he  told  her  so  before  it  was  too  late  1  or  why 
did  he  make  her  wretched  by  telling  her  now  1  In  short, 
the  more  selfish  lover  swept  everything  before  him ;  and 
the  more  generous  one  said,  "If  you  really  prefer  him 
to  me,  Jane,  I  don't  wish  to  hold  you  ;  I  give  you  up." 
Even  having  the  good  grace  to  be  present,  a  cheerful 
guest,  at  that  famous  wedding. 

The  old  man's  newspaper  slipped  from  his  hand,  the  old 
lady's  dim  eyes  wandered  from  the  broad  Bible  page  to  the 
stove-hearth,  and  there  they  sat  and  mused,  while  the  dull 
December  evening  darkened  around  them.  One  could 
almost  hope,  out  of  pity  for  them,  that  they  did  not  think 
of  those  earlier  days.  How  could  they  bear  to  think  of 
them  1  Dear  child,  whose  bright  eyes  are  now  following 
these  lines,  when  the  summer  of  your  life  has  burned  out, 
and  hope  after  hope  has  faded  on  the  cold  hearth  of  old 


200  IN  THE  ICE. 

ago,  can  you  hear,  think  you,  to  sit,  in  the  long  winter 
twihght,  looking  at  the  ashes  1  0  the  asheS,  the  ashes  ! 
What  a  story  of  bounding  sap,  and  green  leaves,  and 
boughs  waving  in  sun  and  breeze,  they  might  tell,  if  they 
had  language  !  This  is  the  tragedy  of  life,  with  the  slow, 
black,  silent  curtain  descending  upon  the  scene. 

It  is  all  the  more  a  tragedy  when  the  actors  feel,  as  these 
two  must  have  felt,  that  they  are  the  authors  of  their  own 
unhappiness.  If  Jonathan  and  Jane  had  been  as  humble 
as  they  were  proud,  if  they  had  treated  each  other  ten- 
derly, using  love  and  forbearance  toward  each  other,  all 
their  days,  this  desolation  could  never  have  come  upon  them. 
Destiny  is  a  tree  that  grows  from  seeds  in  our  own  hearts. 

The  first  few  years  of  their  married  life  had  been  happy  ; 
but  family  cares  increased,  while  their  patience  under 
them  did  not  increase.  What  trifles  they  allowed  to  vex 
them  !  —  trifles,  surely,  when  compared  with  the  greatness 
and  glory  of  love.  They  could  better  have  afforded  to  lose 
everything  else  than  to  lose  this,  if  they  had  only  known 
it  !  They  had  the  New  England  vice  of  excessive  industry. 
Happiness  they  buried  in  hard  work.  They  saved  the 
pennies  of  life,  and  lost  its  jewel.  The  bitter  and  cruel 
things  they  could  say  to  each  other,  after  a  while,  must 
have  amazed  and  shamed  even  themselves  when  they 
paused  to  reflect.  I  don't  know  which  was  most  to  blame, 
but  it  was  she  who  said  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  a  violent 
altercation  (this  was  when  they  had  children  grown  up 
and  married),  "  Jonathan  Dracutt,  I  wish  you  would  never 
speak  to  me  again  as  long  as  you  live  !  " 

He  started  back,  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
then  turned  away. 

"Tell  her  I  take  her  at  her  word,"  said  he  to  their 
daughter  Elizabeth ;  "  but  she  must  never  speak  to 
me!" 


IN   THE  ICE.  201 

"  I  never  will,"  said  Jane. 

That  was  twelve  years  ago,  and  they  had  not  spoken  to 
each  other  since. 

Nobody,  not  even  themselves,  though  they  were  qnite 
in  earnest  at  the  time,  could  have  expected  that  their 
unnatural  silence  would  last  so  long.  Children  and  friends 
remonstrated,  but  in  vain. 

"■  She  has  told  me  never  to  speak  to  her,  and,  unless 
she  takes  back  that  word,  1  shall  abide  by  it,"  said  Jona- 
than. 

"  I  '11  take  it  back  when  he  asks  mj^  forgiveness  for  what 
provoked  me  to  it,  —  he  was  so  unjust !  "  said  Jane ;  which, 
of  course,  he  would  never  do. 

He  ask  forgiveness !  Not  even  if  he  knew  he  was 
wrong. 

"  Then  it  is  just  as  well,"  said  she. 

''Yes,"  he  replied,  through  an  interpreter,  "there  is 
more  peace  in  the  house,  now  her  tongue  is  quiet." 

And  this  w^as  he  who  had  once  believed  that  life  would 
not  be,  in  any  degree,  tolerable  to  him  without  her. 

Pride  and  resentment  kept  both  from  speaking  at  first, 
and  this  reserve  became,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  settled 
habit.  It  gave  rise,  necessarily,  to  many  inconveniences, 
and  sometimes  to  a  ludicrous  situation.  If  a  pedler 
called  and  found  them  alone,  he  was  sure  to  be  amazed 
and  puzzled  to  hear  them  communicate  with  each  other 
through  himself :  "  Ask  him  for  some  money,"  "  Tell  her 
to  git  ye  some  dinner  "  ;  and  to  go  away,  perhaps,  imagining 
he  had  been  dealing  with  insane  people.  Yet  the  habit 
grew  at  length  to  fit  them  so  easily  that  visitors  were 
known  to  stop  at  the  house,  converse  pleasantly  with 
them,  in  the  presence  of  their  children,  and  afterward 
depart  without  discovering  the  peculiarity  of  the  old 
couple.  They  did  not  even  make  direct  signs  to  each 
9* 


202  IN  THE  ICE. 

other,  like  dumb  persons ;  though,  perhaps,  if  she  wanted 
sugar  from  the  grocery^,  she  would  set  out  the  empty 
bucket  where  he  would  see  it,  and  he,  if  he  wished  his 
eoat  mended,  would  lay  it,  rags  uppermost,  across  a  chair. 

One  comprehends  more  easily  how  he  could  continue  to 
live  so,  than  how  she  could,  with  her  woman's  heart.  But 
she  knew  him  to  be  implacable  as  fate,  and  had,  I  suppose, 
no  notion  of  humbling  herself  to  plead  for  a  reconciliation 
which  he  might  not  grant.  Or,  perhaps,  when  her  heart 
swelled  with  the  memories  of  happier  days,  and  yearned 
again  for  the  love  it  Jiad  lost,  the  recollection  of  his  harsh- 
ness and  injustice  rolled  back  the  stone  upon  it ;  for  she, 
too,  was  one  who  found  it  hard  to  forget  a  wrong. 

The  wonder  was  that  they  should  continue  to  live  to- 
gether. But  children,  as  children  so  often  do,  prevented  a 
separation  at  first ;  and  when  the  last  of  these  married  and 
removed  to  the  far  West,  they  had  an  idol  of  a  grandchild 
left,  the  only  son  of  their  only  son,  who  was  dead.  The 
boy  had  lost  his  mother,  too,  so  that  his  grandparents  now 
stood  to  him  in  the  place  of  parents  also.  In  him  all 
their  affections  centred,  and  toward  him  even  the  old 
grandfather,  who  had  always  been  stern  enough  with  his 
own  children,  was  sometimes  (as  is  sometimes  the  way  with 
gi'andfathers)  foolishly  weak  and  indulgent. 


11. 

THE    IDOL    OF    HIS    GRANDPARENTS. 

While  the  two  sat  there  musing  in  the  twilight,  the 
door  opened,  and  a  young  man,  or  rather  a  big  boy,  burst 
in,  with  a  loud  and  abrupt  manner,  slamming  the  door 


IN  THE  ICE.  203 

behind  him,   and  tossing  his  cap  at  a  hat-peg,  without 
much  apparent  expectation  of  hitting  it. 

"  Clinton,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  in  the  tremulous 
accents  of  fond  but  querulous  age,  "  why  can't  you  hang 
up  your  things,  when  you  come  in  ]  'T  would  be  so  little 
trouble  to  you,  and  'twould  save  me  a  sight.  You're 
such  a  harum-scarum,  tearin'  boy !     Now,   Clinton  !  " 

"  0,  don't  bother  !  I  'm  tired,"  said  Clinton,  flinging 
his  overcoat  on  one  chair,  while  he  jerked  another  about, 
and  sat  down  on  it,  between  the  old  folks,  perching  his 
feet  on  the  top  of  the  stove. 

"  Clinton,  you  '11  burn  yer  boots,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
tone  of  mild  warning. 

"  No,  I  won't ;  there  a'n't  heat  enough  to  burn  a  — 
Thunder  and  lightning  ! "  said  Clinton,  flirting  his  finger, 
after  indiscreetly  touching  the  stove  with  it,  "  what  do 
you  keep  such  a  big  fire  for  ^  " 

He  pulled  off  his  boots,  and  hurled  them  into  the  cor- 
ner, and  sat  in  his  stockings,  with  his  feet  on  the  stove- 
hearth,  looking  hugely  dissatisfied,  and  glowering  at  his 
grandparents.  For  this  was  he,  this  was  the  idol,  —  being, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  like  most  idols,  unworthy  of  the 
worship  he  received. 

"  Clinton,  what 's  the  matter  with  ye  to-night  1 "  said 
the  old  man,  with  some  impatience. 

"  Nothing,  of  course  !  I  've  never  anything  to  complain 
of !     0,  of  course  not  !  " 

"  Wal,  wal  !  what  have  ye  to  complain  of  1 " 

"  It 's  nothing,  of  course,  that  you  both  begin  to  scold 
me,  soon  as  ever  I  set  foot  into  the  house.  It's  first 
my  cap,  then  my  boots,  then  something  else.  But  I  'm 
sick  of  it ;  and  sometimes  I  think  I  never  will  come  into 
this  house  again.     It 's  like  coming  into  a  tomb." 

"Wal,   I  suppose  it  is,"   said  the  old  man;  "I  can't 


204  IN  THE  ICE. 

blame  ye  much ;  but  don't  say  I  scold  ye  when  I  don't. 
Tell  her  I  'm  waiting  for  my  supper." 

"  Tell  him  1  'm  waiting  for  a  pail  of  water,"  said  the  old 
lady,  who  had,  in  fact,  been  waiting  for  it  during  the  past 
half-hour,  having  no  interpreter  through  whom  to  ask  for 
it,  being  too  infirm  to  go  herself  to  the  well. 

''  Why  can't  you  draw  a  pail  of  water,  Clinton  1  "  said 
the  old  man. 

*'  I  've  just  got  my  boots  off,"  said  Clinton,  with  a  snarl 
and  a  frown. 

The  old  man  got  up,  and  went  out  for  the  water.  The 
old  lady  got  up,  and,  without  a  word  of  reproach,  took 
care  of  the  young  fellow's  cap  and  coat.  He  saw  her 
stoop  painfully  to  the  floor,  bending  her  poor  old  back, 
and  then  reach  painfully  to  the  pegs,  which  it  was  no 
effort  at  all  for  him  to  reach  ;  he  heard  the  involuntary 
groans  that  escaped  her ;  and  there  he  still  sat,  not  once 
offering  to  help  her,  nor  seeming  to  care.  And  yet  he  was 
not  a  bad-hearted  boy,  this  Clinton.  In  the  village,  he 
enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  a  "  first-rate  fellow."  His 
generous  and  jovial  traits  made  him  a  favorite  with  many, 
who  never  suspected  what  a  thunder-cloud  he  sometimes 
was  at  home.  There,  the  agreeable  companion  became  at 
once  a  grouty  grandson.  This  was  not  simply  because  his 
home  was  gloomy,  although  this  circumstance  no  doubt 
aggravated  his  fault.  But  the  dark  spirit  was  within  him- 
self; it  had  been  fostered  by  indulgence  and  confirmed 
by  habit,  until,  though  his  pride  and  his  ambition  to 
please  enabled  him  to  conceal  it  in  society,  at  home  it 
would  have  been  scarcely  possible  for  him  to  be  anything 
else  than  a  blusterer  and  an  ingrate. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  to  get  so  tired  1 "  asked  the  old 
lady.  "  You  ought  to  have  gone  to  meetin'  this  arternoon, 
Clinton ;  you  ha'n't  been  for  a  month." 


IN  THE  ICE.  205 

"  There  !  I  knew  I  should  get  scolded  for  something 
else  in  a  minute  !  I  could  n't  go  to  meeting ;  Phil  Kermer 
wanted  me.  I  'm  in  the  ice  this  year.  We  've  been  bor- 
ing. We  Ve  bored  in  a  dozen  different  places  all  over 
both  ponds.  Phil  said  he  did  n't  know  what  he  should  do 
■without  me,"  said  Clinton,  brightening,  for  now  he  had  a 
chance  to  brag. 

"  You  and  Phil  are  great  friends,  a'n't  ye  1 "  said  the  old 
lady  ;  and  that  flattered  him. 

"  I  bet  we  are  !  He  is  the  smartest  fellow  and  the  best 
fellow  there  is  in  this  town.  He  is  six  years  older  than  I 
am ;  but  that  don't  make  any  difference,  —  we  're  just 
like  brothers.  He  calls  me  Clint  and  I  call  him  Phil. 
He  is  the  Ice  Company's  foreman  this  year ;  they  trust 
him  with  everything ;  he  '11  have  three  or  four  hundred 
men  under  him  soon  as  we  begin  to  cut.  Won't  it  be 
lively  1 " 

"  Wliat  have  you  been  boring  for  1 " 

"  To  see  how  much  ice  has  made  since  yesterday,  and  to 
see  if  it  '11  do  to  put  our  horses  on  to-morrow,  in  case  it 
snows  to-night.  Phil  is  dead-sure  it 's  going  to  snow.  If 
we  get  three  or  four  inches,  it  '11  have  to  be  scraped  off. 
I  'm  to  be  Phil's  right-hand  man ;  did  you  know  it  1 " 

"  Why,  are  you,  Clinton  1  What  are  you  going  to  do  1 ". 
said  the  old  lady,  proceeding  to  fill  the  teakettle,  now  that 
the  pail  of  w^ater  was  brought  in. 

"  I  'm  to  be  the  marker.  When  we  have  so  many  men 
and  horses  at  work,  somebody  must  keep  count  of  'em,  you 
know.  I  'm  to  have  all  their  names  in  a  list,  and  then  go 
round  among  'em  every  day  and  see  who  's  at  work  and 
who  a'n't,  who  does  his  duty  and  who  shirks,  and  mark 
'em.  Then  I  'm  to  look  after  things  in  general,"  said  Clint, 
pompously  tossing  his  head  and  pursing  his  lips,  —  ^'  give 
orders,  and  report,  you  know." 


206  IN  THE  ICE. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  git  into  the  pond,  my  dear ! "  said 
the  old  lady  with  a  shudder. 

''0,  pshaw,  now!  don't  be  silly!  Of  course  I  sha'n't 
get  into  the  pond.  We  do  business  on  scientific  principles. 
We  know  to  a  pound  just  how  much  weight  ice  of  a  cer- 
tain thickness  will  bear,  —  so  many  inches,  so  many  hun- 
dred pounds,  you  know ;  it  must  be  so  thick  for  men,  and 
so  thick  for  horses.  Phil  and  I  have  got  the  figgers,  —  we 
understand." 

"  Don't  accidents  ever  happen  ? " 

"Yes,  sometimes.  Fellows  get  careless,  and  men  and 
horses  get  in." 

•'  0  Clinton  ! "  said  the  old  lady,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
"  what  should  I  do,  if  you  —  " 

"Bah  !  you  make  me  sick,"  said  Clint,  with  manly  dis- 
gust, turning  his  back  upon  her,  to  manifest  his  disappro- 
bation of  such  womanly  weakness,  and  sitting  there  in  her 
way,  never  once  offering  to  move  out  of  it,  all  the  while 
she  was  getting  supper. 

"Clinton,"  said  the  old  man,  resuming  his  seat,  "I  am 
afraid  to  have  you  so  intimate  with  that  Phil  Kermer." 

Clint  gave  a  scornful  snort.  "  What  next,  I  wonder  1 
You  talk  to  me  just  as  if  I  was  a  child  ! "  And  the  young 
gentleman  took  care  to  show  very  plainly  that  his  dignity 
was  hurt. 

"  He 's  a  man  of  bad  habits,  and  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  fall 
into  'em,"  the  old  man  continued. 

"  He  ^  Oh  !  "  Clint  sneered. 

"  He  's  a  capable  fellow,  but  he  drinks ;  and  for  my  part, 
I  wonder  the  company  should  ever  have  put  him  in  the 
position  where  he  is.  I  'm  sorry  you  've  got  in  with  him  ; 
he  '11  flatter  ye  to  yer  ruin." 

The  young  gentleman  was  mightily  offended  at  this ;  and 
as  he  could  think  of  no  more  effective  way  of  resenting  the 


IN  THE  ICE.  207 

insult  to  himself  and  his  friend,  he  snatched  his  boots  out 
of  the  corner,  pulled  them  on,  and  stalked  out  of  the 
house ;  thus  implying  that,  tired  as  he  was,  he  could 
endure  anything  better  than  the  unreasonableness  of 
these  old  people,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  really  believing 
himself  an  abused  young  man. 

He  had  stayed  out  in  the  cold  about  long  enough,  and 
was  growing  quite  angry  at  the  thought  that  he  was,  after 
all,  punishing  himself  more  than  he  was  them,  when  the 
lamp  was  lighted,  showing  that  supper  was  ready ;  and  he 
had  a  good  excuse  for  going  in.  He  was  determined,  how- 
ever, not  to  relax  for  an  instant  the  awful  severity  of  his 
wrathful  countenance  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  to  convey, 
by  every  means  in  his  power,  the  terrible  impression  that 
it  was  not  probable  he  could  ever  bring  himself  to  over- 
look what  had  passed. 

The  old  lady  was  wise  enough  to  let  him  eat  his  supper 
in  silence.  But  the  old  man,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  looked  sternly  at  the  youth, 
and  said,  "  Clinton,  it  grieves  me  to  the  heart  to  see  you  act 
so."  (Nothing  could  have  pleased  Clinton  more.)  "  But,  let 
me  tell  you  now,  that  if  you  don't  change  for  the  better  in 
this  respect,  you  and  I  '11  have  to  part."  (He  did  n't  like 
that  quite  so  well,  for  the  old  man  seemed  to  be  in  ear- 
nest.) "I've  borne  with  your  surly  temper  long  enough. 
You  can  be  pleasant  in  society ;  why,  then,  can't  you  learn 
to  behave  yourself  at  home  1  You  know  I  would  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  you,  that  was  for  your  good ;  but  the 
more  I  indulge  you,  the  more  ungrateful  and  insolent  and 
sullen  you  are.  You  must  reform,  if  you  stay  under  this 
roof ;  do  you  hear  me  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Clinton,  lowering,  but  respectful,  for  he 
knew  better  than  to  trifle  with  the  old  man  when  his  jaws 
had  that  expression.     He  took  early  occasion,  however,  to 


208  IN   THE  ICE. 

manifest  his  sovereign  displeasure,  and  to  fill  the  grand- 
parental  bosoms  with  remorse,  by  putting  on  his  cap  and 
coat  immediately  after  supper,  and  once  more  departing 
from  the  house. 

"  0  dear !  0  dear  !  0  dear !  "  sighed  the  old  lady,  as 
she  slowly  and  with  shaking  hands  cleared  away  the 
dishes.  But  the  old  man  sat  silent  and  stern  in  his  cor- 
ner, thinking  how  he  should  do  his  duty  by  that  young 
man. 


III. 

THE   LITTLE    HOUSEWIFE    AND    HER    FRIENDS. 

Clinton,  out  of  doors,  was  at  the  same  time  thinking 
how  he  should  wring  drops  of  repentance  out  of  the  old 
man's  heart. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow.  He  was  glad  of  that,  for 
two  reasons  :  in  the  first  place,  he  was  eager  to  commence 
work  on  the  pond,  and  assume  authority  under  Phil  ;  and, 
in  the  next  place,  he  longed  for  an  occasion  to  show  his 
independence  of  the  old  folks. 

"  I  won't  be  home  till  long  after  they  're  abed  to- 
night," he  muttered  to  himself;  "  and  I  '11  be  off  in  the 
morning  before  they  're  up.  I  '11  take  a  pie  in  my  hand, 
and  go  to  dinner  with  Phil,  and  they  sha'  n't  see  me  for 
three  days,  if  I  can  help  it.     Glory  !  how  it  snows  !  " 

Another  thought  struck  him.  He  was  in  business  now ; 
why  not  get  married,  and  have  a  home  of  his  own  1  "  That 
would  kill  the  old  folks  !  "  he  chuckled.  "  I  '11  let  'em  see 
whether  I  'm  a  boy,  to  be  forever  dictated  to  ! "  But 
whom  should  he  marry  1  Emma  Welford,  of  course  ;  he 
would  not  deign  to  lock  at  anybody  else  now  he  was  "  in 


IN  THE   ICE.  209 

the  ice,"  and  had  got  to  be  Phil's  "right-hand  man."  He 
had  been  in  love  with  her  from  the  day  when  he  helped 
untangle  her  fragrant  veil  from  a  blissful  rosebush,  and 
she  gave  him  a  look  that  had  rankled  with  a  sweet  pang 
in  his  heart  ever  since.  He  would  have  proposed  to  her 
before  now,  if  he  could  have  shown  that  he  had  any  means 
of  supporting  a  family.  "  I  wonder  what  salary  Phil  will 
give  me  "  ;  and  he  proceeded  to  count  a  very  large  brood 
of  chickens,  without  waiting  for  the  important  process  of 
incubation. 

He  went  to  see  Emma  that  very  evening;  shook  and 
stamped  off  the  snow  in  the  entry,  and  held  her  dear 
little  hand  in  his  until  she  withdrew  it,  saying,  for  an 
excuse,  "  Why,  how  damp  you  are,  Clinton  !  " 

Then  he  went  in,  and  sat  down,  and  cracked  jokes,  and 
played  with  the  children,  and  was  altogether  so  kind- 
hearted  and  lively,  that  any  one  who  had  seen  him  an 
hour  before,  seeing  him  again  now,  would  have  conjectured 
there  must  be  two  Clintons,  —  one  stamped  in  the  mint 
of  the  morning,  the  other  cast  in  the  dark  mould  of 
night.  Were  you  ever  in  your  life,  my  experienced  friend, 
aware  of  such  a  phenomenon]  And  do  you,  sweet  miss  (I 
am  looking  straight  into  your  eyes  at  this  moment),  do 
you  imagine  that,  w^hen  you  shall  have  given  your  hand 
to  the  brave  John  or  Thomas,  whose  brightness  beams 
upon  you  now  on  set  evenings  of  the  week,  and  he  shall 
have  taken  you  to  his  home,  —  do  you,  I  say,  imagine  it 
possible  that  he  may  there  introduce  you,  in  some  unhappy 
hour,  to  his  counterpart,  the  dark  John  or  Thomas,  whose 
existence  you  have  never  yet  suspected  1  And  you,  blithe 
lover,  do  you  know  that  you  invariably  leave  one  self  be- 
hind you,  and  that,  perhaps,  your  real  self,  when  you  go 
to  meet  your  Mary  ?  Well,  and  perhaps  she  puts  her  real 
self  carefully  away  out  of  your  sight  too. 

N 


210  IN  THE  ICE. 

Of  course,  Emma's  folks  liked  Clinton,  and  were  always 
delighted  to  have  him  come  in.  And  here  I  must  say  a 
word  about  the  family,  which  consisted  of,  first,  old  Uncle 
Jim,  her  grandfather,  —  the  same  Cousin  Jim,  by  the  way, 
who  once  came  so  near  marrying  Clinton's  grandmother. 
He  had  not  broken  his  heart  over  that  unhappy  affair,  but 
had  transferred  it,  in  a  tolerably  sound  and  healthy  condi- 
tion, to  another  young  woman,  whom  he  had  married,  and 
with  whom  he  had  lived  happily  upwards  of  forty  years. 
It  was  the  loss  greater  than  all  other  losses  when  this 
ao-ed  companion  went  from  them.  "  But,  bless  you,  sir  !  " 
he  used  to  say,  "  she  left  the  gate  open,  and  I  've  seen  the 
light  through  it  ever  since."  A  still  darker  sorrow  he 
had  known  :  a  promising  young  man  had  won  their 
daughter,  their  only  child.  He  seemed  to  have  but  one 
fault,  yet  that  one  fault  had  broken  her  heart,  and  sent 
him  early  to  a  drunkard's  grave.  All  this  and  much  more 
(for  no  life  is  free  from  trials)  the  cheerful  spirit  of  the 
man  survived  ;  and  now  he  lived  here  with  his  orphaned 
grandchildren,  their  best  friend  and  companion,  and  still 
himself  a  child  of  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Emma  was  the  little  housewife  and  matron,  and  a 
charming  little  matron  she  was.  "  Her  very  mother's  self 
over  again,"  Uncle  Jim  woidd  sometimes  murmur  aloud, 
watching  her  with  eyes  brimful  of  tears  and  blessings,  as 
she  moved  about  the  house.  Not  that  she  was  the  perfect 
pattern  of  neatness  and  order  which  we  sometimes  read 
about  in  good  books  ;  how  coidd  she  be,  with  four  younger 
brothers  and  sisters  to  look  after,  besides  the  housework  ? 
She  believed  that  little  ones  were  to  be  amused  and  made 
happy ;  and  how  was  that  possible  unless  they  were  some- 
times allowed  to  litter  the  floor  with  their  playthings  1 

"  I  can't  be  always  following  them  up,  and  tormenting 
them  about  such  trifles,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Jones,  a  good 


IN  THE  ICE.  211 

friend  and  neighbor,  and  the  queen  of  housekeepers,  who, 
looking  in  to  see  how  the  little  family  of  orphans  were 
getting  along,  had  exclaimed,  "  Why,  Emma !  how  can  you 
stand  it  ? " 

''  0,  I  stand  it  very  well !  "  laughed  Emma.  "  If  I 
believed  that  immaculate  housekeeping  was  the  great  end 
and  aim  of  a  woman's  life,  as  some  people  seem  to  think,  I 
suppose  I  should  be  troubled  in  my  mind.  But  I  tried, 
and  I  found  I  could  n't  have  perfect  order  and  merry 
children  in  the  house  at  the  same  time  ;  and  I  must  say 
1  prefer  the  merry  children." 

So  it  is  to  be  feared  we  sKould  have  found  many  things 
out  of  place  in  Emma's  little  domain  had  w^e  visited  it 
with  good  Mrs«  Jones ;  but  two  little  things  we  should 
always  have  found  in  place,  namely,  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance and  a  loving  heart. 

Emma  was  "  so  glad  "  Clinton  had  come  in  ;  he  always 
made  such  fun  for  the  children  ;  "  though  you  must  n't  be 
so  funny  as  you  are  sometimes,  you  know,"  she  whispered, 
"  because  it 's  Sunday." 

"  It  's  after  sundown,  and  gi^an'pa  always  lets  us  play 
then,  if  't  is  Sunday  ;  don't  you,  gran'pa  ]  "  young  Tommy 
appealed. 

"  We  keep  Saturday  nights,  or  pretend  to,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Dear  me  !  "  he  went  on,  with  tender  seriousness, 
"  what 's  more  interesting,  what  is  there  prettier,  than  the 
sight  of  children  at  play  %  I  believe  Heaven  itself  is  pleased 
at  it." 

''  There  !  he  said  we  might,"  cried  Tommy.  *'  Come, 
Clint,  make  a  wheelbarrow  of  me,  and  let  Sissy  ride,  as 
we  did  the  other  night." 

So  Clint  made  a  wheelbarrow  of  him,  using  his  legs  for 
handles,  and  running  him  on  his  hands,  which  worked 
quite  well  in  place  of  a  wheel ;  and  Lucy  and  Jimmy  set 


212  '  IN  THE  ICE. 

little  Sissy  on  and  held  her,  while  Clint  trundled  her 
about  the  room,  crying,  "  Po-ta-toes  !  Anybody  want  to 
buy  a  bag  of  po-ta-toes  !  "  Sissy  thought  it  the  funniest 
thing  in  the  world  to  be  a  bag  of  potatoes,  and  to  have 
somebody  buy  her ;  and,  of  course,  everybody  laughed. 
Tommy  himself  laughed  so  that  he  broke  down,  and  had  to 
be  taken  to  the  blacksmith's  shop  to  be  mended.  Grand- 
father's knees  were  the  shop,  and  gTandfather's  arm  w^as 
the  handle  of  the  bellows ;  and  Clint  blew  and  hammered, 
and  hammered  and  blew,  imitating  with  his  lips  the 
wheeze  of  the  blast,  until  Tommy  declared,  amid  convul- 
sions of  laughter,  that  he  was  "tickled  to  death,"  and 
begged  not  to  be  mended  any  more. 

''Well,  I'll  just  put  your  tire  on,"  said  Clint;  but 
Tommy  said  he  did  n't  wear  tires,  —  Jimmy  and  Sissy 
did,  —  he  was  a  big  boy,  and  had  outgrown  them; 
which  blunder  of  his  created  great  merriment  among 
the  older  ones,  for  Clint  meant  the  tire  of  the  imaginary 
wheel. 

Clint  was  peddling  potatoes  again  when  a  second  caller 
came  in.  This  was  no  other  than  the  Ice  Company's 
foreman,  Phil  Kermer.  The  arrival  of  no  other  person 
could  have  created  a  livelier  interest  in  the  little  circle 
just  then.  Emma  blushed  as  she  had  not  blushed  when 
Clinton  came ;  and  the  younger  children,  with  whom  Phil 
also  was  a  great  favorite,  rushed  to  meet  him. 

"  The  old  woman  is  picking  her  geese  !  the  old  woman 
is  picking  her  geese  !  "  said  Lucy  and  Jimmy,  as  he  shook 
the  feathery  snow  from  his  garments,  w^hile  the  wheel- 
barrow jumped  up  and  ran  away  on  its  handles  to  the 
entry,  greatly  to  the  disappointment  of  the  bag  of  po- 
tatoes. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  thell  me  to  him,"  lisped  the  little 
commodity,  regarding  the  new-comer  as  a  customer. 


IN   THE  ICE.  213 

"  Well,  I  '11  buy  you,"  said  Phil,  entering  into  the  joke 
when  it  was  explained  to  him.  "  What  are  you,  —  Irish 
potatoes  1 "  tossing  the  bag  up  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  No,  I  'm  thweet  potatoeth,"  said  the  bag.  At  which 
unconsciously  apt  reply  (for  ivas  n't  she  sweet,  though  1) 
everybody  was  delighted. 

"  Now,  I  '11  put  you  in  the  cellar,"  said  Phil,  setting  her 
up  in  the  corner  behind  his  chair.  "  Which  will  you  be, 
■ —  boiled  or  roasted  1 " 

''  Woathted,  with  thalt  on  me  ;  but  the  watth  (rats) 
will  nibble  me  here  ! "  And  out  ran  sweet  potatoes,  flying 
about  the  room,  and  keeping  up  her  play  till  that  season 
so  dreaded  by  fun-loving  children  arrived,  —  bedtime. 

"  Not  a  word  !  "  said  Emma  ;  and  the  gentle  authority 
she  exercised  over  the  little  pouters  was  beautiful  to 
behold.  "  Come,  T  have  let  you  sit  up  a  good  deal  longer 
than  usual  to-night,  to  see  the  company;  and  now  you 
must  n't  complain.  If  you  do,  I  shall  have  to  send  you 
off  to  bed  the  first  thing,  the  next  time  they  come.  Why, 
Sissy  !  I  need  n't  hang  your  clothes  upon  the  hook  to- 
night, need  I  ?    I  can  hang  them  on  your  lip  ! " 

That  funny  notion  set  Sissy  to  laughing,  so  that  she 
quite  forgot  the  grievance  of  having  to  go  to  bed. 

"Come,  then,"  said  Emma,  and  she  led  the  three  youn- 
ger ones  (Lucy  was  going  to  sit  up  a  little  longer)  to  their 
grandpapa's  knee,  around  which  they  knelt,  and  with 
sweetly  composed  faces  and  little  hands  folded  repeated 
the  Lord's  Prayer  in  unison,  very  reverently;  Sissy's 
lisped  syllables,  "  Lead  uth  not  into  temptathon,"  chiming 
in  so.  softly  and  so  suggestively  (dear  child  !  what  did  she 
know  of  temptation '?)  that  Phil  Kermer  (who  did  know 
something  of  it,  and  knew,  too,  that  there  was  need  enough 
of  Ms  making  that  prayer)  felt  his  eyes,  as  he  listened, 
suddenly  grow  dim  with  an  unaccountable  and  very  extraor- 


214  IN  THE  ICE. 

dinarj  moisture.  Young  Clint  might  also  have  breathed 
that  prayer  to  advantage  ;  but  somehow  the  scene  did  not 
touch  him  in  the  same  way. 

Then  the  old  grandfather,  in  accents  afFectingly  tremu- 
lous with  the  earnestness  of  his  love,  gave  the  little  ones 
his  blessing ;  then  they  kissed  everybody  good  night,  and 
Emma  went  to  see  them  safely  tucked  up  in  bed. 

Presently  a  rap  was  heard  on  the  stove-pipe  which  went  up 
from  the  sitting-room  into  the  chamber  above.  "  Mithter 
Phil  !  Mithter  Phil !  "  called  Sissy,  "  when  you  going  to 
woatht  and  eat  me  1 "  Then  the  ringing  laugh  that  fol- 
lowed !  —  did  ever  silver  bells  equal  its  music  1 

"  What  should  we  do  without  the  children  1 "  said 
Uncle  Jim.  "  What  would  the  old  folks  do  without  you, 
CUntonr'  he  added,  thinking  immediately  of  his  aged 
friends  in  the  other  house.  "  It 's  fortunate  you  have 
such  a  loving  disposition.  You're  their  sunbeam,  I'm 
sure." 

Clint  looked  a  trifle  disconcerted  at  this.  "  It 's  being  a 
sunbeam  under  difficulties,  where  they  are,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  may  be.  Poor  Jane  !  she  was  such 
a  bright  girl  when  —  I  —  I  'm  sincerely  sorry  for  them." 
said  the  old  man,  with  emotion.  He  had  never  treasured 
up  resentment  against  them  for  the  wrong  they  had  done 
him,  and  consequently  had  never  felt  a  thrill  of  triumph, 
nor  anything  else  but  pity,  for  the  cloud  that  darkened 
their  lives. 

"It  would  be  easy  enough  to  be  a  sunbeam  in  this 
house,"  thought  Clint ;  and  he  drew  an  enchanting  picture 
of  himself  marrying  into  the  family,  having  such  fun  with 
the  young  ones  every  night,  and  receiving  a  call  from  Phil 
as  often  as  that  gentleman  would  have  the  condescension 
to  come  in.  W^ith  Emma  for  a  wife  and  Phil  for  a  friend, 
he  believed  he  would  be  the  most  fortunate  and  enviable 


IX  THE  ICE.  215 

fellow  in  the  world ;  and,  indeed,  one  could  hardlj  blame 
him  for  that  fancy. 

Where  was  there  another  man  like  Phil  ?  Strong,  self- 
reliant,  magTietic,  kindly,  with  broad  and  genial  manners, 
and  a  smile  that  broke  like  sunrise  through  the  cloud  of 
his  ruddy-brown  beard,  you  would  have  set  him  down  at 
once  as  a  powerful  and  attractive  person  with  the  young  of 
both  sexes. 

Clint  thought  they  were  intimate  friends,  whereas  the 
relation  he  bore  to  Phil  was  that  of  a  faithful  spaniel  to 
an  indulgent  master.  Phil  liked  him,  of  course,  as  good 
masters  like  their  dogs.  The  one  walked,  gravely  com- 
placent, his  own  road,  while  the  other  followed  and  played 
about  him.  Clint  opened  his  heart  and  confided  every- 
thing to  Phil,  but  Phil  kept  his  own  counsel.  Clint  had 
even,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  whispered  to  him  his  secret 
hopes  wdth  regard  to  Emma  Welford,  —  a  confession  which 
Phil  had  received  with  a  very  curious  smile. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  Emma  to  return  to  the 
room,  Clint  longed  to  walk  up  to  his  friend  and  give  him 
a  hint  of  his  present  matrimonial  purpose  ;  but  something 
in  Phil's  face  or  manner  prevented  him.  This  evening,  in 
fact,  the  hound  happened  to  be  in  the  master's  way,  and 
so  received  cold  looks  in  place  of  the  expected  encourage- 
ment. 

Emma  stayed  out  of  the  room  as  long  as  she  decently 
could,  dreading  to  return  to  it  for  reasons  which  may  as  w^ell 
be  told.  She  was  afraid  of  Phil  Kermer,  — afraid,  because 
he  was  at  once  the  dearest  man  to  her  in  all  the  world,  and 
the  most  dangerous.  He  had  won  her  heart  almost  before 
she  knew  it ;  and  only  when  he  came  to  speak  to  hei  of 
marriage  had  she  awakened  to  the  peril  of  her  position. 

Her  father  had  died  a  drunkard,  and  her  mother,  on  her 
dying  bed,  had  made  her  promise  that  she  would  never 


216  IN  THE  ICE. 

marry  a  "  drinking  man."  After  the  ruin  she  had  seen 
wrought  in  her  own  family  by  that  one  fatal  habit  of  self- 
indulgence,  it  seeemed  hardly  necessary  that  such  a  prom- 
ise should  be  exacted  from  her ;  but  now  she  was  glad  she 
had  given  it,  for  it  seemed  her  only  safet}^  She  might,  in 
some  joy-intoxicated  moment,  forget  the  two  untimely 
graves  in  the  churchyard,  and  their  silent  warning;  but 
that  sacred  pledge  she  could  never  forget,  —  it  would  prove 
a  barrier  against  temptation  when  everything  else  had  failed. 

Phil  Kermer  did  not  merely  take  a  little  wine  for  the 
stomach's  sake,  nor  was  he,  on  the  other  hand,  a  drunkard 
any  more  than  her  father  had  been  at  his  age  ;  but  that  he 
took,  now  and  then,  something  stronger  than  wine,  and 
took  a  trifle  too  much,  could  not  be  denied.  He  had  at 
first  laughed  at  Emma  for  asking  him  to  forego  the  prac- 
tice ;  and  when  he  found  how  serious  she  was  in  requiring 
it  of  him,  he  was  vexed.  He  thought  it  absurd  and  in- 
jurious for  any  person  to  suppose  that  he,  Phil  Kermer, 
was  capable  of  ever  becoming  a  sot,  and  for  her  to  think 
so  was  especially  grievous.  They  had  quarrelled  on  that 
theme  when  last  they  parted,  and  he  had  kept  away  from 
her  as  long  as  he  could.  She  had  been  made  very  miser- 
able by  his  absence,  and  now  she  was  at  once  overjoyed 
and  alarmed  to  see  him  again. 

With  nerA'ous  hands  she  smoothed  her  hair  and  arranged 
her  collar,  after  hugging  the  little  ones  in  bed,  and  finally 
went  down  stairs.  Lucy  and  Uncle  Jim  soon  retired,  and 
left  her  alone  wath  the  visitors.  There  was  an  awkward 
silence  of  some  moments,  during  which  she  read  in  Phil's 
face  two  things,  —  that  he  had  come,  full  of  passion  and 
persuasion,  to  convince  her  that  she,  not  he,  was  wrong ; 
and  that  he  was  quietly  waiting  for  Clint  to  go.  She  at 
once  determined  that  Clint  should  not  go,  little  thinking 
what  he  himself  had  come  for. 


IN  THE  ICE.  217 

A  damp  had  fallen  upon  the  boy's  spirits,  which  he 
vainly  endeavored  to  shake  off.  At  length,  he  went  to 
the  door  and  looked  out  at  the  snow-storm.  On  his 
return,  Emma  moved  to  make  room  for  him  on  the  sofa 
beside  her. 

"  I  tell  you,  this  will  make  lively  work  for  us  to-mor- 
row ;  won't  it,  Phil  1 "  said  he. 

Phil  merely  wagged  his  beard  with  a  slow,  lazy  nod,  and 
neither  smiled  nor  spoke.  This  reserve  was  killing  to 
poor  Clint,  but  Emma  came  to  his  rescue. 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  the  snow  1 "  she  asked,  to 
call  him  out,  although  she  had  already  heard  him  brag 
that  he  was  "  in  the  ice "  this  year,  along  with  Phil. 
That  set  him  going  again.  They  had  the  conversation  all 
to  themselves,  however,  Mr.  Kermer  only  now  and  then 
giving  a  word  or  a  nod  when  appealed  to,  as  he  sat  placidly 
pulling  his  beard,  and  waiting  for  Clint  to  go. 

At  last  a  confused  glimmering  of  the  truth  broke  upon 
the  young  man's  mind.  It  was  when  she  reproved  them 
for  what  they  had  been  doing  that  afternoon,  namely, 
boring  the  ice. 

^'You  shouldn't  bore  on  Sundays,"  she  said. 

'*  Nor  on  Sunday  evenings,  either,"  Phil  added,  so  dryly 
that  nobody  could  tell  just  what  he  meant  by  the  joke. 

Clint,  however,  took  the  application  home  to  himself, 
and  felt  terribly  cut  up  by  it.  He  began  to  explain  to 
her  that  boring  on  the  Sabbath  was  sometimes  a  deed  of 
necessity,  but  quite  broke  down  before  he  had  ended,  and 
wound  up  with,  "  Well,  I  guess  I  had  better  be  going." 

"  No,  don't  go  yet/'  said  Emma,  so  smilingly  that  he 
felt  soothed  and  flattered,  and  remained.  Phil  gave  his 
beard  a  harder  pull  than  usual,  but  kept  an  imperturbable 
countenance. 

Still  Clint   CO  aid  not  feel   easy;   and  although  Emma 
10 


218  IN  THE  ICE. 

was  never  so  charming,  her  excitement  giving  vivacity  to 
her  manners  and  brilliancy  to  her  looks,  and  she  did  her 
best  to  entertain  him,  it  was  not  long  before  he  whispered 
to  her,  with  a  dark  glance  at  Phil,  that  he  really  ought  to 
go.  Bat  she  shook  her  head,  with  a  look  in  the  same  di- 
rection, as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  mind  him,"  and  whis- 
pered back,  "  Stay  a  httle  longer,  —  to  please  me." 

Phil  pretended  to  be  looking  over  an  album  of  photo- 
graphs, but  saw  and  heard  everything.  He  no  longer  be- 
lieved that  the  objection  she  had  made  to  his  habit  of 
drinking  was  her  real  motive  for  slighting  him,  but  became 
suddenly  fired  with  jealousy  of  the  boy.  Full  of  ire, 
which,  however,  he  had  the  tact  not  to  betray,  he  quietly 
closed  the  book,  stroked  his  beard  again,  suppressed  a 
yawn,  and  lazily  got  up, 

"  Well,  good  evening,"  he  said,  and,  of  course,  noticed 
that  she  did  not  urge  him  to  stay. 

Clint  made  a  feeble  motion  to  accompany  him,  vacillated, 
and  finally  remained. 

Emma  rose  immediately,  said,  *'  Must  you  go,  Mr. 
KermerT'  and  stood  by  the  entry  door,  waiting  for  him 
to  put  on  his  coat.  He  paused  as  he  buttoned  it,  and 
looked  down  at  her;  she  looked  up  at  him,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  feet  and  hands  like  ice,  her  lips  forcing  a 
smile. 

"  Is  this  our  good-by  1 "  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  penetrat- 
ing her  with  an  indescribable  look. 

"  It  is  good  night,  not  good  by,  —  at  least  I  hope  so," 
she  said.     "  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  your  friendship." 

"  Indeed  !  "  He  took  her  cold  little  hand,  but  dropped 
it  again,  smiled  in  his  turn  gloomily  and  bitterly,  and 
said,  "  Good  by.'"' 

He  gave  her  a  long,  searching,  farewell  glance,  and  went 
out  into  the  storm. 


I^   THE  ICE.  219 

She  watched  him  from  the  door  till  his  form  vanished  in 
the  dim,  white,  falling  cloud  of  snow.  There  were  melting 
flakes  on  her  eyelashes  when  she  went  back  into  the  room, 
and  she  seemed  quite  chilled.  Her  spirits  had  forsaken 
her,  and  she  had  only  vacant  looks  and  the  very  ghost  of 
a  smile   for  poor  Clint,   whom  we  will  now  leave  to  his 


IV. 

PHIL   ASSERTS    HIS    INDEPENDENCE. 

Mr.  Phil  Kermer  boarded  at  the  very  worst  place  in 
the  world  for  a  man  of  his  tastes  and  temperament,  namely, 
the  village  hotel.  When  he  returned  home  that  even- 
ing, he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  go  quietly  to  bed  and  think 
of  his  sins,  which  would  have  been  by  far  the  most  whole- 
some thing  for  him  to  do.  On  the  contrary,  he  took  the 
very  course  which  led  him  still  further  from  the  happiness 
which  he  (like  so  many  of  us)  wished  to  clutch  and  make 
his  own,  without  first  earning  it  by  honest  endeavor. 

He  felt  blue,  in  short,  and  thought  he  would  assert  his 
independence  and  warm  his  heart  a  little  by  taking  a 
dram.  Finding  half  a  dozen  good  fellows  in  the  bar-room, 
he  invited  them  to  drink  with  him.  Then,  as  your  good 
fellows  can  never  bear  to  be  outdone  in  generosity,  each 
felt  under  obligations  to  treat  in  return.  So  it  happened 
that  Phil  asserted  his  independence  a  good  many  times, 
for  it  is  good  fellows'  etiquette  to  drink  again  with  the 
man  who  has  drank  with  you.  Considerable  confusion 
seemed  to  arise  at  last  with  regard  to  whose  turn  it  was  to 
treat,  as  well  as  with  regard  to  things  in  general,  and  Phil 
somehow  found  himself  doing  the  honorable  thing  again, 


220  IN  THE  ICE. 

and  still  again.  The  result  was  that  he,  for  the  first  time, 
went  to  bed  that  night  decidedly  and  unmistakably  — 
independent. 

Clint,  in  the  mean  while,  went  home  sober  enough,  —  a 
little  more  so,  in  fact,  than  he  had  expected  to  be  on  that 
occasion.  What  he  had  said  to  Emma,  and  what  she  had 
said  to  him,  I  could  never  learn ;  but  this  I  know,  that 
lovers  have  returned  from  their  wooing  with  lighter  hearts 
under  their  jackets  than  Clint  carried  that  night  into  the 
gloomy  old  house,  and  up  stairs  to  his  sad  bed.  He  lay 
awake  a  long  time,  thinking  what  a  fool  he  had  been,  and 
wishing  himself  where  neither  grandparents,  nor  Emma, 
nor  Phil  might  ever  hear  from  him  again,  until  they  should 
some  day  learn,  with  bitter  remorse  and  envy,  what  a 
noble,  gi'eat,  renowned,  rich  man  he  had  got  to  be. 

Waking  early,  and  looking  out  on  the  still,  white  morn- 
ing (the  storm  was  over,  but  the  earth  was  covered,  and 
the  laden  trees  drooped  with  their  beautiful  burden  of 
snow),  and  remembering  that  he  was  "  in  the  ice,"  he 
jumped  up,  and  felt  his  interest  in  life  revive  as  he  thought 
of  the  exciting  day's  work  before  him. 

"Never  mind,"  thought  he;  "Phil's  a  good  fellow.  I 
don't  blame  him.  J  won't  be  in  his  way  another  time.  I  'm 
his  right-hand  man  this  year,  and  that 's  enough  for  me." 

So  he  forgave  Phil,  who  was  necessary  to  him ;  but  was 
quite  far  from  forgiving  his  grandparents,  of  whose  happi- 
ness he  was  himself  so  necessary  a  part. 

He  ate  his  pie  secretly  in  the  pantry,  and  went  out  into 
the  snow,  —  the  first  to  make  tracks  through  its  calm 
and  unsullied  purity  that  memorable  morning.  Arrived 
at  the  tavern,  he  found  Phil  in  bed,  sick. 

"  A  cold,  —  an  awful  headache,  —  that 's  all."  And  the 
haggard  foreman  fixed  his  eyes  steadily  as  he  could  on  his 
right-hand  man.      "  Has  it  stopped  snowing  1 " 


IN   THE  ICE.  221 

*'  Yes ;  the  sky  is  clear  as  a  bell." 

"  That 's  deused  unlucky,  with  this  headache  on  me ! 
How  much  snow  fell  1 " 

"  About  five  inches." 

"  The  wooden  scrapers  will  do.  Take  the  key,  Clint,  — 
it 's  hanging  on  that  nail  there ;  go  and  open  the  tool- 
house,  and  start  the  men  when  they  come.  I  "11  be  there 
soon." 

"  All  right,"  said  Clint,  and  hurried  away,  proud  of  the 
importance  of  his  duties. 

The  men  had  had  warning  that,  if  it  snowed,  they  must 
be  on  hand  with  their  teams  as  soon  as  the  storm  was 
over ;  and  when  the  sun  rose  on  the  dazzling  scene,  not 
fewer  than  a  hundred  laborers  and  sixty  horses  were 
already  on  the  pond. 

Clint  went  around  among  them,  pompously  giving  orders, 
only  to  get  laughed  at.  When  they  learned  that  Phil  was 
sick,  they  went  to  work  in  their  own  way,  choosing  the  way 
that  would  most  annoy  Clint,  in  preference  to  any  other. 

"  I  cut  ice  'fore  ever  you  was  out  o'  your  baby-clo'es  ;  an' 
think  I  'm  goin'  to  be  gee-hawed  about  by  you  1 "  said  old 
Farmer  Corbett,  whose  contempt  for  Phil's  "right-hand 
man  '■'  seemed  to  be  pretty  generally  shared  by  the  rest. 

Clint  was  enraged  at  their  conduct,  as  well  as  alarmed. 
Phil  had  told  him  the  day  before,  that,  as  the  ice  was,  it 
would  not  do  to  put  many  teams  on  it  together,  but  that 
they  must  be  scattered  over  the  pond.  The  men,  how- 
ever, would  not  believe  but  that  the  ice  was  twice  as  thick 
as  it  was ;  and,  for  want  of  specific  orders  from  Kermer, 
they  all  went  to  scraping  on  one  side.  In  vain  Clint 
shrieked  his  commands  to  them  to  scatter.  To  and  fro 
and  athwart  the  icy  field  went  the  men  and  horses  and 
scrapers,  sometimes  almost  huddling  together,  just  the 
same  as  if  he  had  not  interfered. 


222  IN  THE  ICE. 

"  Stop  your  clack,  and  go  and  git  some  more  hammers, 
or  mallets,  or  siithin',  to  knock  off  the  balls  with  "  (for  the 
snow  was  damp,  and  the  horses'  feet  "  balled  "  badly),  ''  if 
you  want  to  do  anything,"  said  the  old  farmer  j  and  went 
off  with  his  loaded  scraper  to  the  bank. 

The  hammers  were  needed  ;  and  Clint,  disgusted, 
tramped  back  to  the  tool-house  to  get  them.  To  his  great 
relief,  he  there  found  Phil,  who  had  just  arrived  in  a  sleigh. 

"  Phil,  you  ought  to  be  out  there  ! "  said  Clint. 

Kermer,  who  was  feeling  dreadfully  shaky  and  remorse- 
ful and  cross,  took  offence  at  what  seemed  to  him  imperti- 
nent dictation.  For  the  very  reason  that  he  was  conscious 
of  a  guilty  neglect  of  duty,  he  was  the  more  sensitive  to 
being  told  so  by  a  boy. 

"  I  know  my  own  business,"  he  answered  sharply. 

"  Yes ;  but,"  persisted  Clint,  ''  if  you  can't  be  out  there 
yourself,  do  just  come  and  enforce  my  authority.  They 
won  t  mind  a  word  I  say.  The  men  and  horses  all  get 
into  a  heap  ;  and  they  '11  be  through  the  ice  as  sure  as  you 
live.     Old  Corbett  says  I  don't  know  anything." 

"  And  so  you  don't !  "  broke  forth  Phil,  furiously,  per- 
haps remembering  last  night,  and  thinking  that,  but  for 
Clint,  who  was  then  in  his  way,  he  should  not  have  made 
a  beast  of  himself,  as  he  had  done,  and  lost  his  self-respect, 
and  all  hope  of  Emma,  whose  scruples  regarding  his  one 
bad  habit  he  had  so  quickly  and  so  shamefully  justified. 
''Your  authority?"  he  went  on,  with  quite  savage  con- 
tempt. "  You  have  no  authority  !  If  old  Corbett  is  there, 
it 's  all  right.     What  do  you  want  1  " 

Clint,  quite  stunned  by  this  violence,  stammered  out 
something  about  hammers.  Phil  gave  him  four,  and  told 
him  to  be  gone.  The  young  man,  white  with  suppressed 
anger,  thrust  two  or  three  of  them  —  one  a  small  sledge, 
or    stone-hammer,    weighing    several    pounds  —  into    his 


IN  THE  ICE.  223 

overcoat  pockets,  and  went  out  of  the  building  very  much 
as  he  was  accustomed,  in  his  bad  moods,  to  walk  out  of  the 
house  at  home.  This  was  the  last  the  foreman  remem- 
bered of  that  unfortunate  transaction. 

He  felt  at  once  that  he  had  done  wrong,  and  that  he 
ought  to  call  the  boy  back  and  speak  kindly  to  him. 
"  I  'm  a  brute  !  "  he  muttered,  clasping  one  hand  convul- 
sively to  his  forehead,  and  steadying  himself  with  the 
other,  as  he  staggered  back  against  a  work-bench. 

There,  half  sitting,  half  leaning,  with  his  head  bowed  and 
his  face  covered,  he  remained,  feeling  himself  still  too  weak 
and  shaky  to  appear  among  the  men,  and  thinking  no  very 
happy  thoughts,  be  sure,  when  he  was  roused  from  his 
stupor  by  a  wild  cr}^  or  rather  a  tumult  of  cries.  It  came 
from  the  pond.  He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant ;  he 
knew  that  something  terrible  was  happening.  He  rushed 
out  of  the  tool-house  just  in  time  to  see  a  thronged  field  of 
the  frozen  surface  undulate  and  break  up,  and  a  reeling 
and  plunging  mass  of  utterly  helpless  men  and  horses  go 
down  in  the  ice. 


V. 

THE    POND-RAKES    COME    IN    PLAY. 

Old  man  Dracutt  was  sweeping  snow  from  the  door- 
yard  path  when  Uncle  Jim  stopped  at  the  gate. 

"  Good  mornin',  Jonathan." 

"  Good  mornin',  good  mornin',  James  !  "  said  Jonathan, 
resting  on  his  broom.  "  What 's  the  good  word  this  morn- 
in', James  1 " 

"  No  good  word,  Jonathan,"  said  Uncle  Jim,  in  a  con- 
strained and  awkward  manner,  pulling  the  gate  open  and 


224  IN  THE  ICE. 

"  Hey  !  what 's  the  matter  %  —  folks  sick  1 " 

"  My  folks  are  all  well ;  children  are  chipper,  thank 
Heaven!  "    Uncle  Jim  cleared  his  throat.    "  All  well  here  1 " 

"  Toler'ble,  all  that 's  to  home.     Clinton  's  oft'  to-day." 

"Ah!     Where 's  Clint  ?" 

"  To  work  on  the  ice,  I  s'pose." 

"  Sorry  to  hear  that !  "  said  Uncle  Jim.  "  There  's  been 
an  accident,  did  you  know  it  % " 

"  On  the  ice  r'  cried  old  man  Dracutt,  with  an  anxious 
start. 

''So  I  hear.  A  good  many  men  got  in  ;  and  it 's  feared 
they  ha'n't  all  got  out  again."  And  Uncle  Jim  fixed  his 
tender  blue  eyes  compassionately  on  old  man  Dracutt's 
face. 

"  Not  —  Clinton  1" 

"  Some  of  the  wet  men  have  come  to  my  house  for 
clothing.  I  —  I  hojDe  for  the  best,  Jonathan.  There  's  no 
knowing  yet ;  but  I  thought  you  ought  to  be  prepared. 
Dear  boy  !  he  was  in  to  see  us  last  night,  —  so  lively,  as  he 
always  is  !  No,  no,  Jonathan  !  I  can't  believe  he  is 
drownded  !  "  But  Uncle  Jim  turned  away  with  a  look 
that  told  a  different'  story. 

"  I  understand  ;  you  've  come  to  break  it  to  me."  Jona- 
than spoke  calmly,  though  his  voice  was  deep  and  husky, 
and  he  leaned  heavily  on  the  broom.  "  Tell  me  the  truth 
James ;  is  he  drownded  1 " 

"So  the  men  sa}^ ;  but  they — "  James  set  out  to 
explain,  but  Jonathan  cut  him  short. 

"  Where '? " 

"  Over  b}'  the  white  ice-houses." 

"  Go  in  and  tell  her,"  said  Jonathan. 

He  himself  did  not  go  in  (and  we  will  not),  but  started 
at  once  to  walk  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

"  Drownded  !    and  my  last  word  to  him  was  a  harsh 


IN   THE  ICE.  225 

one  ! "  he  murmiirod,  as  he  went  out  at  the  gate ;  and 
again,  ever  and  anon,  as  he  tramped  with  difficulty  through 
the  snow,  —  "  Drownded  !  and  my  last  word  was  unkind  !  " 

It  was  a  mile  to  the  spot,  and  the  old  man  was  more 
infirm  than  he  appeared.  He  soon  came  in  sight  of  the 
pond,  however,  and  could  see,  far  off,  groups  of  men  mov- 
ing excitedly  about  the  broken  field.  Some  were  clearing 
the  water  of  the  floating  fragments  of  ice  ;  others,  in  boats, 
or  standing  on  the  unbroken  edge,  were  thrusting  down 
poles,  which  he  knew  to  be  the  long-handled,  ponderous 
pond-rakes,  with  which  the  bottom  was  in  summer  cleared 
of  weeds.  Up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro,  the  poles  were 
pushed  and  dragged,  and  he  was  sure  they  were  searching 
for  his  boy. 

With  this  terrible  knowledge,  and  with  this  scene  full  in 
view,  the  old  man  walked  the  last  half-mile  of  his  toilsome 
tramp.  He  kept  the  bank  of  the  pond  until  he  was  quite 
near,  then  went  down  upon  the  ice.  Crossing  an  unbroken 
corner,  he  soon  came  to  the  men  with  the  poles.  They 
continued  at  work,  while  others  standing  by  made  way 
for  him  with  ominous  respect,  —  the  respect  which  even 
the  rudest  persons  instinctively  show  to  one  in  afflic- 
tion. There  was  a  hush  of  voices  as  he  appeared  ;  then 
old  Farmer  Corbett  turned  to  him  and  said  bluntly, 
"It  's  a  bad  business,  Neighbor  Dracutt.  If  the  boys 
had  only  heerd  to  me,  't  would  n't  'a'  happened.  I  kep' 
tellin'  on  'em  they  worked  too  clust  together  ;  though  I  'd 
no  idee  myself  but  that  the  ice  w-as  thicker.  Lucky  for 
me,  I  'd  jest  drove  off*  when  it  give  way.  Your  boy  wa'n't 
alone.  We  had  thirty  men  and  eighteen  bosses  in  to  once. 
But  I  flew  round,  pulled  off"  the  ropes  from  t'other  bosses, 
and  throwed  'em  to  the  fellers  we  could  n't  reach.  W^ooden 
scrapers  was  lucky,  —  I  vow,  I  believe  the  boys  would  have 
hitched  on  to  the  iron  ones,  if  't  had  n't  been  for  me ; 
10*  o 


226  IN  THE  ICE. 

they  helped  keep  'em  afloat,  the  wooden  scrapers  did.  We 
broke  the  ice  to  the  shore/  and  hild  the  hosses'  heads  above 
water  till  they  could  tech  bottom,  an'  in  ten  minutes  we 
had  'em  all  out." 

"  All !  "  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  hope. 

''  All  the  animals,  an'  all  the  fellers  but  your  grandson ; 
at  least,  he's  the  -only  one  missin',  fur's  we  know. 
There  wa'n't  no  need  o'  his  bein'  drownded  at  all ;  but 
he  'd  been  to  git  some  hammers  to  knock  off  the  balls  from 
the  bosses'  hoofs  with,  an'  'pears  the  foolish  feller  tucked 
'em  in  his  pockets.  They  took  him  right  to  the  bottom, 
of  course.  An'  what  I  'm  feared  on  now  is,  we  sha'  n't  find 
him  at  all.  This  here  shore  slants  right  down  steep,  to 
about  seventy  or  eighty  feet  deep,  off  here ;  an'  with  them 
hammers  in  his  pockets,  with  every  struggle  he  made,  he  'd 
be  liable,  don't  ye  see  1  to  work  his  way  furder  an'  furder 
down  that  pitch.  That 's  what  I  tell  'em  ;  but  they  don't 
seem  inclined  to  believe  a  word  I  say.  If  they  'd  believed 
me  when  I  telled  'em  they  ought  to  scatter  more,  an'  not 
crowd  together  so  on  sech  young  ice,  'twould  'a'  been 
better  for  all  on  us,  I  vow." 

Mr.  Dracutt  watched  the  men  raking  the  pond  for  some 
time,  without  speaking,  though  his  lips  moved  now  and 
then  inaudibly.     At  last  he  asked  for  KeiTner. 

"  That 's  him  with  the  pole,  in  the  bow  of  that  furder 
boat  there,"  said  Farmer  Corbett.  "  He  's  done  his  duty 
sence  he 's  been  here  ;  but  if  he  'd  been  here  afor6,  't  would 
'a'  saved  all  this.  Nobody  knowed  how  to  go  to  work. 
Nobody  would  hear  to  me,  though  I  telled  'em  —  "  and  so 
forth  ;  the  worthy  farmer  appearing  by  this  time  to  have 
convinced  even  himself  that  he  had  foreseen  the  danger, 
and  to  find  a  dismal  satisfaction  in  uttering  prophecies 
after  the  fact. 

*'  Don't  handle  your  rake  that  way  !  "  said  the  old  man, 


IN  THE  ICE.  227 

as  Farmer  Corbett  thrust  down  the  implement  in  a  fresh 
spot  beneath  the  ice.  "  Be  more  careful ;  be  more  tender  ! 
You  may  hurt  the  boy  ! " 

"  He  's  past  hurtin'  by  this  time,  I  guess  likely,"  said 
Farmer  Corbett.    "  The  main  thing  now  is  to  fish  him  out." 

"  Wal,  wal !  be  gentle  !  I  would  n't  have  ye  mar  his 
featur's,  nor  any  part  of  him,  more  'n  I  'd  have  ye  tear  my 
own  flesh.  If  he  's  drownded,  he  's  drownded ;  but  don't 
mangle  him.     Whereabouts  w^as  he  when  he  went  down  1 " 

"That  nobody  knows.  It's  as  much  as  a  chap  wants 
to  do,  sech  a  time,  to  keep  the  run  of  himself,  with  an 
acre  of  ice  slumpin'  down  under  him,  and  the  water 
spurtin'  up  about  his  legs ;  he  can't  keep  many  eyes  on 
to  his  neighbors,  nor  do  much  else  but  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness for  a  spell.  Two  or  three  o'  them  that  got  the  duck- 
in',  —  they  've  gone  off  now  for  dry  shirts  and  breeches,  — 
they  said  they  seen  Clint  a  standin'  on  the  ice  not  more  'n 
a  few  seconds  'fore  it  split  up,  though,  of  course,  they 
can't  tell  jest  where.  A  sudden  casouse  over  neck  an' 
heels  into  ice-water  makes  a  feller  feel  curis,  I  tell  ye,  for 
about  a  minute,  an'  forgit  things.     I  tried  it  once  myself" 

"  How  long  'fore  you  missed  him  1 "  the  old  man  asked. 

''  I  vow,  I  don't  know  as  we  sh'd  'a'  missed  him  till  this 
time,"  said  Farmer  Corbett,  getting  down  on  his  knees,  and 
feeling  w^ith  his  rake  to  the  utmost  depth  it  would  fathom  ; 
"  but  Kermer  missed  him.  He  asked  for  Clint  Dracutt, 
a'most  the  fust  thing,  'fore  ever  we  'd  got  half  the  men 
out.  He  knowed  about  the  hammers  in  his  pockets,  ye 
see.  No  use  !  "  (Drawing  up  the  rake.)  "  The  bottom  's 
gittin'  down  out  o'  my  reach,  and  I  go  about  two-an'-twen- 
ty  foot.  We  shall  have  to  lash  poles  to  the  rake-handles ; 
an'  then,  if  we  don't  find  him,  cut  holes  in  the  ice  here 
behind  us,  an'  fish  for  him  through  them." 

"Don't  git  discouraged,"  cried  the  old  man,  seeing  that 


228  IN  THE  ICE. 

others  were  at  the  same  time  beginning  to  relax  their 
efforts.      "Let  me  take  the  rake." 

Farmer  Corbett  was  quite  willing  to  give,  it  np  ;  and  the 
old  man  found  a  temporary  relief  to  his  distress  of  mind 
in  the  physical  exertion  of  searching  for  the  body.  It  was 
hard  work,  however,  and  his  strength  was  soon  exhausted. 
He  was  feebly  hauling  up  the  weed-entangled  rake  from 
under  the  verge  of  the  ice,  when  some  one  came  and  took 
him  by  the  arm.  It  was  Phil  Kermer,  sober  enough  by 
this  time. 

"  This  is  no  work  for  you,  Mr.  Dracutt.  Come  away ; 
let  me  send  you  home." 

"  No,  no  !  I  can't  go  till  he  is  found,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  I  will  see  that  everything  is  done  that  can  be  done," 
said  Phil.     "  Come  ;  my  sleigh  is  here." 

Still  the  old  man  refused  to  go.  And  now  the  foreman 
was  called  away  from  him  by  the  arrival  of  the  president 
of  the  Ice  Company,  driving  down  in  a  cutter  to  the  edge 
of  the  pond,  where  two  of  the  directors,  who  were  already 
on  the  spot,  went  to  meet  him. 


VL 

PHIL   RESIGNS    HIS    SITUATION. 

Kermer,  on  coming  up,  found  the  three  in  consultation. 

"  How  is  this,  Kermer  ] "  said  the  president,  from  under 
his  rich  sleigh-robes. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Phil,  "  I  '11  tell  you  just  how  it  is," 
the  haggard  face  and  earnest  manner  of  the  man  com- 
manding at  once  their  sympathy  and  respect.  "  I  suppose 
I  am  to  blame  in  this  matter."  He  hesitated,  dropped  his 
head  upon  his  breast,  clinching  his  hands  and  his  teeth 


^>    .      • «,  , 


IN  THE  ICE.  229 

tightly  for  a  moment,  then  went  on.  "  The  truth  is,  I  was 
drunk  last  night,  and  I  was  n't  myself  this  morning. 
There  's  no  use  disguising  the  fact ;  I  don't  wish  to  dis- 
guise it;  I  dont  wish  to  shirk  the  consequences.  Do 
your  worst  with  me,  gentlemen.     I  'm  prepared." 

"  But  what  can  we  do,  Kermer  1 " 

"One  thing,  certainly.  You  can  discharge  a  foreman 
who  has  been  guilty  of  such  gross  neglect  of  duty.  You 
can't  do  less  than  that.  You-  can  do  as  much  more  as  you 
please." 

"  But  we  don't  know  how  to  spare  you  ;  we  don't  want  to 
spare  you,  Kermer,"  said  the  president.  "  You  have  been 
a  very  useful  man  to  us.  And  this  being  the  first  offence 
of  the  kind,  which  I  am  sure  you  will  never  repeat  —  " 

"It's  no  use,  sir  !"  answered  the  foreman,  in  a  voice 
shaken  to  its  depths  by  strong  emotion.  "You  don't  see 
your  own  interests  as  I  see  them.  You  will  stand  better 
with  the  community  if  you  discharge  me.  That 's  the  only 
atonement  you  can  make  to  the  boy's  friends.  They  will 
feel  better.  And  as  an  example,  gentlemen,  you  ought  to 
do  it,  if  for  no  other  reason." 

"  How  so,  Kermer  1 " 

"Because,"  said  Phil,  who  seemed  to  have  lived  and 
thought  more  in  the  past  two  hours  than  in  years  before, 
and  to  have  come  to  great  conclusions,  —  "  because  young 
men  ought  not  to  be  able  to  say  that  a  foreman  in  an  im- 
portant place  like  mine  can  keep  that  place  after  he  has 
caused  the  death  of  one  man,  and  endangered  the  lives  of 
fifty,  by  getting  drunk." 

The  president  and  his  two  associates  on  the  spot,  being 
kind-hearted  and  just  men,  were  greatly  embarrassed  to 
know  what  to  do  in  the  case.  If  Kermer  had  approached 
them  with  falsehood  and  excuse,  endeavoring  to  cast  the 
blame  of  the  accident  upon  others,  their  duty. would  have 


230  IN   THE  ICE. 

been  comparatively  clear ;  such  a  foreman  would  certainly 
have  deserved  to  be  dismissed.  But  nothing  disarms  cen- 
sure like  self-accusation ;  and  the  deep  remorse  he  evinced, 
vet  more  by  his  manner  than  by  his  words,  seemed  the 
best  guaranty  he  could  give  of  sober  and  faithful  behavior 
in  the  future. 

"  There  is  force  in  what  you  say,  Kermer,"  said  one  of 
the  directors.  "  But  the  very  fact  that  you  say  it  con- 
vinces me  that  you  are,  after  all,  a  man  to  be  trusted. 
You  have  shown  great  ability  and  fidelity  to  our  interests 
hitherto,  and  I  don't  think  one  such  indiscretion  ought  to 
ruin  a  man.     What 's  your  opinion,  gentlemen  1 " 

The  other  two  agi'eed  with  him,  and  proposed  that  the 
decision  of  the  question  should  be  postponed  until  the  next 
regular  meeting  of  the  board.  The  truth  was,  Phil  was 
too  valuable  a  man  to  lose. 

The  foreman  was  deeply  affected,  but  by  no  means 
persuaded,  by  this  unexpected  kindness.  He  struggled  a 
moment  with  his  emotions,  then  said,  "  Gentlemen,  T 
thank  joii,  this  is  so  much  more  than  I  deserve,  but 
it  can't  be  as  you  wish.  If  you  won't  discharge  me 
for  the  reasons  I  have  given,  then  discharge  me  for 
my  own  sake.  I  can't  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. If  I  could  exchange  places  with  that  dead  boy 
under  the  ice,  I  should  be  contented,  I  should  be  quite 
happy.  Since  that  can't  be,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  only 
relief  I  can  have  will  be  in  punishment.  If  I  don't  have 
some  outward  punishment,  my  inward  punishment  will  be 
too  great  to  bear.  Let  me  go  to  work  by  the  day  under 
some  other  foreman,  if  you  still  want  to  keep  me." 

''Very  well,  Kermer,"  said  the  president.  "  We  don't 
discharge  you,  mind,  but  we  accept  your  resignation,  since 
you  insist  upon  it,  and  we  hire  you  by  the  day." 

"  Like  any  other  laborer,"  Kermer  stipulated. 


IN  THE  ICE.  231 

"  Like  any  other  experienced  laborer.  You  won't  object 
to  having  charge  of  a  gang  of  men,  under  me,  will  you, 
till  we  can  find  another  foreman  1  I  shall  stay  and  look 
after  the  work  myself  for  the  present." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  gentlemen  j  drive  me,"  said 
Phil. 

And  he  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  be  driven  hard. 


VII. 

A    FAREWELL    AND    AN    APPARITION. 

The  horses  and  scrapers  were  going  again  busily  and 
cheerfully,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  only  half  a  dozen 
men  remaining  with  the  late  foreman  to  search  for  the 
drowned  body.  It  was  a  toilsome  and  discouraging  task, 
and  at  last  old  man  Dracutt,  chilled  and  exhausted,  con- 
sented to  be  taken  home. 

"  I  telled  'em  ■  so,  I  telled  'em  so  !  "  Farmer  Corbett 
repeated  every  half-hour,  as  he  watched  the  ineffectual  rakes, 
lengthened  out  by  the  addition  of  poles  lashed  to  the 
handles,  working  their  way  into  deeper  and  deeper  water. 
And  it  really  began  to  appear  that  he  was  right  in  his  con- 
jecture that  Clint  had  gone  down  the  steep  slope  beneath 
the  unbroken  ice.  "  They  won't  get  him  now,  at  all,  — 
mark  my  word,  boys,  —  not  without  he  rises  to  the  surface 
an'  freezes  into  the  ice,  where  we  may  come  acrost  him 
when  we  come  to  cut." 

As  that  day  passed,  and  the  next,  and  the  third  and 
fourth  likewise,  and  the  body  was  not  found,  the  old  man 
became  triumphant,  and  offered  to  make  large  bets  in 
support  of  his  theory.     He  would,  no   doubt,  have  been. 


232  IN  THE  ICE. 

deeply  disappointed  and  chagrined  if  the  body  had  turned 
up  at  last  and  proved  him  to  be  no  true  prophet.  But 
that  was  not  to  be.  On  the  fifth  day  the  search  was  aban- 
doned, and  he  again  had  the  satisfaction  of  reminding 
people,  with  his  usual  sagacious  smirk  and  arrogant  head- 
shake,  that  he  "  telled  'em  so." 

The  catastrophe  soon  ceased  to  be  talked  about.  As 
the  frozen  surface  of  the  pond  was  suffered  to  close  over 
the  spot,  so  the  ice  of  oblivion  seemed  soon  to  form  over 
the  memory  of  poor  Clint.  The  groups  of  skaters,  once 
his  daily  companions,  flying,  on  swift,  ringing  irons,  along 
that  shore,  and  sometimes  pausing  to  observe,  one  to  an- 
other, "  I  wonder  whereabouts  under  us  Clint  Dracutt 
is  ! "  then  speeding  on  again  joyous  as  ever,  were  types  of 
the  world  out  of  whose  busy  and  careless  life  he  had  dis- 
appeared. Will  more  be  said  of  you  and  me,  think  you, 
0  my  friend  !  when  the  universal  icy  tablet  is  laid  over 
our  heads  also  1 

There  were  three  or  four  hearts,  however  (may  we  hope 
for  as  many  such,  and  be  grateful),  that  did  not  forget  the 
unlucky  youth  so  readily.  Upon  his  grandparents,  left 
now  to  their  dumb  and  wretched  loneliness,  the  loss  had 
of  course  fallen  most  heavily.  Yet  there  was  one  other  to 
whom  it  occasioned  even  greater  suffering,  though  in  ,a 
different  way.  This  was  Phil  Kermer.  He  had  been 
really  attached  to  Clint,  and  would  have  missed  him  under 
any  circumstances  that  might  have  separated  them  ;  but 
the  sting  lay  deeper  than  that,  —  he  felt  that  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  boy's  death.  With  him,  therefore,  mere 
regret  was  consumed  in  burning  remorse. 

It  was  a  terrible  thing  to  Phil  to  be  obliged  to  give  up 
all  hope  of  recovering  the  body.  He  regretted  now  that 
he  had  consented  to  remain  upon  the  pond  at  all.  Every 
day,  and  every  hour  of  the  day,  he  was  reminded  of  the 


IN  THE  ICE.  233 

death  which  his  conscience  told  him  his  own  negligence 
and  unkindness  had  caused.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  constantly  walking  over  the  grave  of  his  murdered 
friend.  P^iss  where  he  would  on  the  ice,  there  the  dead 
face  seemed  to  rise  beneath  it,  and  with  upturned  eyes  and 
still,  livid  lips  reproach  him  for  his  crime.  And  he  was 
now  helping  to  make  merchandise  of  that  ice.  The 
thought  of  it  became  intolerable  to  him  ;  the  very  sight 
of  the  pond,  which  had  before  been  his  delight,  filled  him 
with  loathing. 

Everybody  noticed  the  change  that  had  come  over  the 
late  foreman,  and  he  had  the  sympathy  and  respect  of  the 
entire  community.  Emma  Welford  heard  of  it,  and  she 
longed  inexpressibly  to  see  him  once  more  and  speak  to 
him  one  little  word  of  comfort ;  all  the  interest  she  had 
ever  felt  in  him,  all  the  tenderness  he  had  ever  inspired, 
returning  with  tenfold  force  upon  her  heart,  now  that  she 
knew  he  was  unhappy. 

It  was  generally  believed  that  Kerm^r  was  working  his 
way  back  gradually  and  surely  to  the  place  which  he  had 
felt  obliged  temporarily  to  resign.  A  week,  two  weeks, 
passed;  no  other  foreman  was  engaged,  and  the  ice  was 
at  last  thick  enough  to  cut.  It  was  Saturday  evening,  and 
on  Monday  morning,  if  no  more  snow  should  fall  in  the  inte- 
rim, the  harvesting  of  the  crystal  crop  was  to  begin.  As 
Phil  was  leaving  the  pond  at  dusk,  the  president  stopped 
him  and  put  a  letter  into  his  hand. 

"  Think  of  it  till  Monday,"  said  he,  "  then  give  us  your 
answer." 

Phil  went  into  the  tool-house,  struck  a  light,  and  read 
the  letter.  It  was  a  formal  proposition  for  him  to  resume 
his  former  duties  as  foreman,  with  an  increased  salary. 

He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  extinguished  the  light, 
locked  up  the  tool-house,   and  went   home.     He  did   not 


234  IN  THE  ICE. 

wait  till  Monday,  however,  before  coming  to  a  decision. 
Before  he  slept  that  night  his  mind  was  made  up.  He 
determined  to  decline  the  offer  and  to  leave  the  pond. 

In  leaving  the  pond,  he  would,  of  course,  leave  the 
town ;  for  what  would  then  be  left  to  hold  him  there  but 
those  painful  associations  from  which  he  was  growing  mor- 
bidly anxious  to  be  free'?  But,  before  going,  he  felt  he 
had  a  duty  to  fulfil.  He  had  never  yet  had  the  courage  to 
visit  Clint's  grandparents  since  the  accident ;  he  would  do 
so  now.  And  Emma,  —  ought  he  not  to  see  her  once  more 
and  acknowledge  to  her  that  she  had  always  been  right 
with  regard  to  his  one  dangerous  habit,  and  then  bid  her  a 
final  adieu  1 

The  next  day  he  wrote  his  letter,  formally  and  positively 
declining  the  company's  proposition,  and  in  the  evening  set 
out  to  make  his  farewell  calls.  "  Emma  first,"  thought 
Phil,  with  a  strange  swelling  of  the  heart. 

It  was  a  clear  January  night ;  beautiful,  still  moonlight 
on  the  beautiful,  still  snow.  Phil's  shadow  glided  beside  him 
as  he  walked,  and  a  darker  shadow  than  that  dogged  his 
every  step,  —  the  memory  of  Clint.  It  was  only  two  weeks 
since  they  had  met  together  in  that  house,  and  then  the 
boy  had  been  in  the  man's  way.  What  would  not  the  man 
have  given  to  have  the  boy  in  his  way  again  to-night  ! 

It  is  true,  a  horrible  temptation  beset  Kermer  as  he 
approached  and  saw  the  light  in  the  windows,  and  all  his 
old  feelings  toward  Emma  surged  up  again.  He  believed 
that  she  would  have  married  Clint,  if  he  had  lived.  Now 
that  Clint  was  gone,  perhaps  he,  Phil  —  But  he  would 
not  allow  the  thought  to  shape  itself  in  his  mind.  To 
profit  in  any  way  by  the  boy's  death  would,  he  felt,  make 
him  a  murderer  indeed.  "  No,  no  !  "  thought  he,  crushing 
down  his  heart  as  it  rose  rebelliously ;  "this  very  thing 
makes  a  union  with  her  utterly  and  forever  impossible  ;  I 


IN  THE  ICE.  236 

should  always  feel  that  I  had  gained  her  by  getting  rid  of 
Clint.  I  won't  forget  this  now  when  I  come  to  see  her." 
And  he  did  not  forget  it. 

They  met  almost  in  silence  at  the  door,  so  much  were 
they  overcome  by  the  emotions  the  occasion  called  up  in 
each.  The  children  ran  to  him,  as  of  old;  and  Sissy, 
remembering  the  fun  she  had  the  last  time  he  was  there, 
asked  for  Clint.  "  What  have  you  done  with  Clint  1  Did 
you  put  him  down  under  the  ithe  1  Won't  the  fitheth  bite 
him  there  1 " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Emma ;  while  poor  Phil  was  unable 
to  speak  a  word. 

But  the  little  chatterbox  ran  on.  She  wished  to  know 
how  Clint  could  get  up  to  heaven,  now  that  the  ice  was 
thick  and  hard  all  over  him,  and  would  Phil  cut  a  hole  to 
let  him  pass  through  1 

"  I  with  he  would  n't  go  to  heaven,"  she  said ;  "  for  I 
want  him  to  come  and  make  a  wheelbarrow  of  Tommy,  and 
let  me  be  a  bag  of  potatoeth,  and  thell  me  like  he  did  lath 
time.  Will  you  let  me  be  a  bag  of  potatoeth,  Mithta  Phil  ? " 
But  Phil,  cut  to  the  heart  by  the  innocent  prattle,  said 
he  did  n't  believe  he  couM  make  a  wheelbarrow ;  besides, 
the  blacksmith's  shop  (namely,  the  old  grandfather)  had 
gone  to  call  on  a  sick  neighbor;  then  what  Avould  they 
do  if  the  wheelbarrow  should  break  down  ?  •  So  Sissy 
was  put  off,  and  the  children  were  soon  sent  out  of  the 
room. 

Then  Phil  told    Emma  of  his    determination    to   leave 
town,  probably  never  to  return.     She  had  not   expected 
that.     She  had  hoped  that  he  had  come  to  say  something  ^ 
very,  very  different.     Why  did  he  go?  she  asked.     And  ' 
he  told  her  something  of  what  he  had  suffered. 

"  But  we  all  know  it  was  an  accident ;  then  why  do  you 
blame  yourself  so  ] " 


236  IN  THE  ICE. 

"  Because  I  am  to  blame,"  answered  Kermer,  with  sol- 
emn self-condemnation.  "And  that  brings  me  to  speak  of 
what  I  have  come  to  say  to  you  to-night." 

What  could  that  be,  if  he  had  not  said  it  already  1 
Emma  could  not  conceal  her  agitation.  Never  before  had 
she  felt  so  powerfully  attracted  toward  this  man.  Suffer- 
ing had  softened  him ;  his  old  self-complacency  had  van- 
ished, and  in  its  place  humility,  and  charity,  and  sweetness 
of  spirit  surrounded  him  with  their  warm  and  living  at- 
mosphere. This  change  in  himself,  together  with  a  similar 
change  in  her,  perhaps  (for  she  too  had  suffered),  rendered 
him  more  than  ever  susceptible  to  the  charm  of  her  pres- 
ence, and  he  felt  compelled  to  keep  a  fast  hold  in  his  mind 
upon  his  strong  resolution,  to  avoid  yielding  to  that  influence. 

After  a  pause,  holding  her  hand  and  looking  into  her 
eyes,  he  said  to  her  :  "  I  thought  I  ought  to  acknowledge 
to  you,  before  I  go,  that  you  were  altogether  right  in  what 
you  required  of  me,  and  that  I  was  altogether  wrong.  It 
may  seem  a  mere  mockery  for  me  to  make  that  confession 
now ;  it  is  too  late  for  it  to  do  anybody  any  good.  Yet  I 
felt  I  ought  to  make  it." 

Why  w^as  it  too  late  1  Why  did  he  go,  now  that  the  only 
obstacle  that  had  before  separated  them  seemed  to  be  re- 
moved *?  for  he  declared  that  he  had  forsworn  his  habit  of 
dissipation  forever.  The  real  cause  of  his  leaving  her  was 
too  painful  a  subject  for  him  to  talk  about,  aiid  he  could 
only  say  that  he  went  ''  because  he  must."  Then  the  con- 
clusion w^as  forced  upon  her  that  he  did  not  care  for  her 
any  more;  that  he  had,  perhaps,  never  really  cared  for 
her,  and  her  womanly  pride  was  roused,  giving  her  un- 
natural strength  for  the  separation.  She  was  wonder- 
fully dignified  and  cold  till  he  had  reached  the  door  ;  then 
he  opened  his  arms,  and  she  fell  sobbing  upon  his  breast. 
He  kissed  her  once  and  again,  and  breathed  forth  I  know 


IN  THE   ICE.  237 

not  what  passionate  parting  words  with  his  farewell,  then 
hurriedly  departed  from  the  house,  like  a  strong  man  flee- 
ing from  a  great  temptation. 

In  the  street,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself. 
He  felt  more  utterly  forlorn  and  desolate  than  he  had  ever 
believed  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  and  live.  "  Go  back 
to  her  !  "  whispered  one  passion  in  his  breast.  "  Go  to  the 
bar-room ! "  whispered  another  and  darker  passion.  He 
resisted  both. 

He  could  not  go  at  once  and  make  his  farewell  call  on 
the  old  couple,  and  so  he  wandered  down  a  lane  that  led  to 
the  pond.  Why  he  should  choose  to  revisit  at  that  time  a 
scene  which  he  could  not  behold  without  a  pang,  it  is  not 
easy  to  say.  But  sometimes  pain  itself,  especially  when 
associated  with  some  object  of  affection  or  respect,  has  a 
fascination  for  us. 

He  went  down  to  the  shore,  and  stood  by  a  high  board 
fence  that  served  as  a  shelter  to  a  former's  hot-beds,  —  the 
wintry  sky  above  him  cloudless  and  pure  ;  before  him  the 
cold,  shining  silence  of  the  moonlit  ice.  There  were  no 
skaters  on  the  pond  that  night,  and  its  stillness  was 
broken  only  by  its  own  wild  and  solitary  noises. 

As  Phil  was  gazing  in  the  direction  of  the  spot  where 
the  catastrophe  had  occurred,  he  became  all  at  once  aware 
of  what  seemed  a  human  figure  walking  on  that  part  of  the 
pond.  In  a  little  while,  it  appeared  to  be  approaching  him. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  until  he  thought  he  ought  to 
catch  the  sound  of  footsteps,  but  not  a  sound  was  heard. 
Silently  as  a  ghost,  out  of  the  ghostly  silence  it  came,  glid- 
ing along  the  ice.  Now  it  stood  still,  and  now  it  threw  out 
its  arms  wildly  and  beat  its  breast.  And  now  it  assumed 
to  the  eyes  of  the  amazed  spectator  a  mien  and  shape  that 
made  his  blood  run  cold,  —  the  mien  and  shape  of  the 
drowned  youth,  Clinton  Dracutt ! 


238  •  IN   THE  ICE. 

VIII. 

UNCLE   JIM's    evening   CALL. 

Again  that  Sunday  evening  old  man  Dracutt  and  his 
wife  sat  together  by  their  lonely  kitchen  fire,  but  with  no 
Clinton  now  to  come  in  and  break  the  awful  silence  and 
monotony  of  their  lives.  The  lamp  had  not  been  lighted  ; 
only  the  moonlight  lay  upon  the  floor,  and  the  still  white- 
ness of  the  winter's  night  filled  the  room  with  its  pallid 
reflection. 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  chair  erect,  but  looking  more 
crushed  together  in  the  neck  and  jaws  than  ever,  while  his 
wdfe  appeared  bent  by  ^n  added  load  of  trouble.  There 
was  utter  silence,  except  that  now  and  then  a  soft,  low  sob 
was  heard  ;  the  old  lady  was  thinking  of  that  night  two 
weeks  ago,  and  weeping.  Then,  ever  and  anon,  from  with- 
out came  a  deep,  muffled,  reverberating  roar  or  groan,  as 
if  Nature  herself  sympathized  with  their  woe.  If  it  had 
been  summer,  you  would  have  said  it  thundered.  But  it 
was  the  pond  complaining,  the  thick-ribbed  ice  shudder- 
ing and  moaning  under  the  cold,  starry  night.  Every  sud- 
den, prolonged  peal  reached  the  ears  of  the  lonely  old 
couple  in  the  bereaved  house,  reminding  them  of  their 
loss. 

They  had  not  spoken  to  each  other  yet,  nor  had  there 
been  much  need  that  they  should  speak,  so  well  had  they 
learned  in  all  those  years  to  understand  each  other  with- 
out words.  But  they  had  shown  in  many  ways  that  they 
felt  more  kindly  toward  each  other  since  this  great  afflic- 
tion came  upon  them.  And  now,  old  lady  Dracutt  sitting 
there,  weeping,  in  the  gloom,  longed  to  speak  once  more 
to  her  husband,  and  to  hear  his  voice. 


IN  THE  ICE.  239 

She  was  ready  to  say,  "  Forgive  me,  Jonathan,"  but  was 
afraid  to  utter  the  words.  How  strangely  they  woiild  sound, 
breaking  the  unnatural  silence  that  had  kept  them  dumb  to 
each  other  for  twelve  years  !  Again  and  again  she  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  not  bring  her  tongue  to  shape  the 
syllables  ;  it  seemed  paralyzed  ;  she  began  to  feel  a  strange, 
benumbing  fear  that  she  would  never  have  power  to  break 
that  silence,  that  it  had  been  taken  from  her  as  a  punish- 
ment for  her  long  sin  of  wilfulness  and  hard-heartedness 
toward   him. 

While  she  was  thus  struggling  ineffectually  with  herself, 
suddenly  another  voice  broke  the  spell  which  she  could 
not,  —  to  her  terror  and  joy,  her  husband's  voice. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Jane  —  "  said  he,  and  stopped. 

"  0  Jonathan  !  you  have  spoken ! "  she  cried  out,  with 
a  wild  sob.  "God  bless  you,  God  bless  you,  Jona- 
than !  " 

"Jane,  I  thought  I  had  better  speak,"  said  the  old  man 
in  a  trembling  voice.  "  I  have  been  wantin'  to  for  many 
days.     I  think  I  have  been  wrong,  Jane." 

"  Don't  say  it,  don't  say  it,  Jonathan,"  said  the  old  lady, 
sinking  to  the  floor,  and  throwing  her  clasped  hands  across 
his  knees.  "  I  should  have  asked  your  forgiveness.  I  have 
tried  to.  I  was  trying  to  now,  when  you  spoke.  0  Jona- 
than, Jonathan ! " 

"  God  forgive  us  !  I  think  we  have  both  been  wrong,  but 
I  have  been  most  in  the  wrong,''  said  the  old  man.  Then 
a  long  silence  followed,  broken  by  sighs  and  sobs,  and  the 
moaning  peals  of  the  pond. 

"I've  been  thinkin',"  resumed  the  old  man,  —  she  was 
at  last  seated  by  his  side  once  more,  and  her  hand  was  in 
his,  —  "that  I  can't,  somehow,. bear  to  have  Clinton's  mem- 
ory passed  over  in  this  way.  I  think  we  ought  to  have 
funeral  sarvices  for  him,  even  without  —  " 


240  IN  THE  ICE. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "  I  have  felt  so,  too.  It  will  be  some 
satisfaction.     I  said  as  much  to  Cousin  James." 

"  He  told  me  you  did.  He  told  me,  too,  what  you  said 
about  my  blaming  myself  so  much  on  account  of  the  boy. 
And  it  touched  me,  it  touched  me ;  I  did  n't  desarve  that 
you  should  feel  and  speak  so  kindly." 

"  But,  Jonathan,"  r,eplied  Jane,  wiping  her  eyes,  "  you 
said  nothin'  to  him  that  night  that  it  was  n't  your  duty  to 
say.     I  felt  that,  though  I  hated  to  have  him  hurt." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  If  I  had  been  different, 
he  might  have  been  different.  No  wonder  he  was  cross 
sometimes.  It 's  the  hardest  thing  for  me  to  reconcile  my- 
self to  the  fact  that  my  last  word  to  him  was  unkind. 
He  would  n't  have  gone  off  on  the  pond  so  the  next  mornin' 
without  speakin'  to  us,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that.  I  thought 
't  was  my  duty  to  reprimand  him,  and  maybe  it  was.  But 
my  first  duty  was  to  set  him  an  example  of  cheerfulness 
and  good  temper.  What  could  we  expect  of  him  as  long 
as  we  two  were  at  enmity  V  And  the  old  man  ended  with 
a  groan. 

While  they  were  talking,  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door. 
The  old  man  said,  "Walk  in,"  while  the  old  lady  made 
haste  to  light  a  lamp. 

"  It 's  nobody  but  me ;  don't  light  up  for  me,"  said  a 
familiar  voice,  as  the  tall  form  of  a  hale  old  man  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"  Cousin  James !  "  said  the  old  lady,  still  opening  the 
wick  with  the  lighted  match. 

"  At  this  time  o'  night,  and  with  a  knock  !  "  said  old 
man  Dracutt,  pushing  a  chair  toward  the  visitor. 

"  I  knocked  because  I  —  I  rather  thought  ye  had  com- 
pany," said  James,  glancing  his  eye  about  the  room  as  he 
sat  down. 

"You  heard  talkin',  I  s'pose,"  said  old  man  Dracutt. 


IN  THE  ICE.  241 

"  Ye  need  n't  be  sTirprised  at  it.     'T  was  nobody  but  Jane 
and  me." 

"  Praise  the  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Uncle  Jim  (for  we  like 
best  the  name  the  young  folks  called  him  by).  "  Bless  ye, 
Jonathan ;  bless  ye,  Jane.  I  hoped  this  sorrow  would  bring 
you  closer  together,  and  I  see  it  has." 

*■  It  has,  it  has  ! "  said  Jane. 

"  God's  ways  are  not  our  ways,"  said  Uncle  Jim,  with 
deep  emotion.  "  He  has  done  it.  He  meant  it  all  for  your 
good." 

"  I  believe  so,"  replied  Jane.  "  We  have  had  comfort  in 
each  other  to-night,  such  as  we  have  n't  had  for  twenty 
year.  But,  0  James  !  at  what  a  cost  !  I  've  been  thinkin' 
the  sunshine  could  n't  melt  us,  and  so  God  sent  his  light- 
nin'.  If  we  had  n't  been  so  hard-hearted,  then  our  boy 
might  have  been  spared  to  us." 

"  But  you  will  soon  become  reconciled  to  his  loss,"  said 
Unlce  Jim,  philosophically  —  so  very  philosophically,  in- 
deed, that  old  man  Dracutt  looked  at  him  with  reproach- 
ful surprise. 

"  That  can  never  be,  James.  There  's  only  one  thing  now 
that  can  be  any  satisfaction  to  us.  This  week  the  ice  will 
be  cut  over  all  that  part  of  the  pond.  He  may  be  found, 
froze  into  it.  If  not,  then  we  must  have  funeral  sarvices, 
jest  the  same  as  if  he  was.  What  ails  ye,  James  1  Ye 
don't  listen  to  me.  I  thought  ye  approved  of  the  idee  of  a 
funeral." 

"  So  I  do  —  that  is,  so  I  should  —  hem  !  "  coughed  Uncle 
Jim,  using  his  handkerchief,  fidgeting  in  his  chair,  and 
behaving  strangely  in  other  ways.  "  But  I  would  n't  huny 
about  it.  There  's  no  knowin',  je  know  —  he  may  be  found 
yet  —  and  —  hem  !  —  the  flict  is,  there 's  no  sartinty  —  no 
positive  sartinty — that  he's  diownded,  ye  know,  Jona- 
than." 

11  p 


242  IN   THE  ICE. 

"  I  wish  I  did  know  it,"  said  Jonathan,  somewhat 
startled.  "  If  I  could  think  there  was  a  particle  of  hope  ! 
James,"  he  went  on,  with  increasing  agitation,  "  what  have 
you  come  here  for  this  time  o'  the  evenin'  1  You  don't  act 
your  nat'ral  self.    There 's  somethin'  — " 

"  Yes,  there  is  somethin',''  Uncle  Jim  replied,  "  and  I 
want  you  to  be  prepared  for 't." 

*'  For  Heaven's  sake,  James  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  "  what  is 
it  1     Have  they  found  the  poor  boy's  body  1 " 

<'  jSJot  —  not  exactly  that.  I  tell  ye,"  Uncle  Jim  cleared 
his  throat  again,  "  there  's  no  positive  sartinty  about  his 
bein'  drownded.  The  men  said  he  was  on  the  ice  jest  a  few 
seconds  before  it  broke  up ;  but,  don't  you  see,  men  can't 
have  much  recollection  with  regard  to.  time,  after  such  an 
accident  1  What  seemed  to  them  a  few  seconds,  when  they 
thought  on 't  afterwards,  might  have  been  a  few  minutes ; 
in  fact,  might  have  been  five,  ten  minutes.  Have  ye 
thought  of  thatr' 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  all  the  sarcumstances,  James,  —  they 
are  agin  the  supposition.  Where  could  the  poor  boy  be, 
if  not  there  *?  He  could  n't  have  gone  off.  He  had  no 
money  about  him.     Then,  agin,  the  hammers,  James  ! " 

"  The  hammers  !  —  hem  !  —  yes,  Jonathan,"  said  Uncle 
Jim,  in  the  awkwardest  manner,  and  with  the  strangest 
blending  of  cheerfulness  and  anxiety  in  his  kind  old  face, 
''about  the  hammers.  Something  has  come  to  light  with 
regard  to  them  ;  and  that 's  one  thing  I  've  come  to  tell  you. 
Whatever  has  become  of  Clinton,  tkeT/  have  n't  gone  to  the 
bottom  of  the  pond,  that's  a  sartin  case." 

"  How  do  you  know  1 "  cried  old  man  Dracutt,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  I  was  told  so,  on  good  authority,  this  veiy  evenin'.  I 
know  jest  where  them  hammers  are.  The}'^  are  lyin'  in  a 
corner  of  the   fence,   a  few  rods  beyond  the  tool-hcuse. 


IN  THE  ICE.  243 

The  very  hammers,  I  know  it.  The  snow  prevented  'em 
from  bein'  discovered  before." 

"  Clinton  !  Clinton  !  then  he  may  be  alive  !  "  broke 
forth  the  old  lady,  with  sudden  and  wild  hope. 

"It  is  more  than  probable.  In  fact,  a  —  person  —  has 
been  heard  from,  up  in  New  Hampshire,  who  answers  his 
description.  A  young  man  come  to  town  this  evenin'  and 
brought  the  news.  He  '11  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  Be 
calm,  Jane,  I  —  I  believe  he  is  comin'  now  !  "  (Footsteps  in 
the  creaking  snow  outside.)  "So,  do  be  composed,  Jona- 
than !     You  know  now  who  it  is  !  "  as  the  door  opened. 

"  Clinton  ! "  shrieked  the  old  lady,  tottering  forward, 
and  falling  on  the  new-comer's  neck,  with  hysterical  sobs. 

It  was  Clinton,  sure  enough,  and  Phil  Kermer  with  him. 


IX. 

HOW    CLIXTON    MISSED    A   RARE    CHANCE. 

A  WORD  now  (while  the  old  couple  are  recovering  ft'om 
their  shock  of  joy)  with  regard  to  the  young  man's  reap- 
pearance. 

The  reader  has,  of  course,  divined  that  the  ghost  Phil 
saw  on  the  ice  was  no  other  than  Clint  himself.  He 
crossed  the  pond  because  it  was  the  nearest  way  home. 
When  he  stood  still,  he  was  hesitating  whether  to  go  on  to 
the  lane,  or  to  take  a  still  more  direct  course  over  Mr. 
Jones's  farm.  He  had  on  india-rubber  shoes,  and  they 
muffled  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  preventing  them  from 
being  heard  imtil  he  was  quite  near.  When  he  flung  out  his 
ai-ms  and  beat  his  breast,  he  was  simply  whipping  his  sides 
to  warm  his  hands.     You  may  be  sure  that  Phil  did  not 


244  IN   THE  ICE. 

long  remain  in  doubt  as  to  the  real  nature  of  the  appari- 
tion; and  that  he  was  thrilled  with  something  besides 
fear,  when,  calling  out  in  a  loud  voice  from  the  shore,  "  Is- 
that  you,  Clinton  Dracutt  ]  "  he  received  the  characteristic 
response,  in  gross  mortal  accents,  "  I  bet  ye  !  That  you, 
Phil  Kermerr' 

"When  the  first  surprise  of  their  meeting  was  over,  and 
Phil  had  got  from  Clint  a  brief  account  of  his  disappear- 
ance, and  Clint  had  leanied  (for  the  first  time)  from  Phil 
that  he  was  supposed  to  be  drowned,  they  walked  up  the 
lane  toward  the  Dracutt  house.  But  now  it  occurred  to 
Phil  that  the  grandson's  sudden  reappearance  unannounced 
might  be  even  a  more  dangerous  shock  to  the  old  couple 
than  the  report  of  his  death  had  been.  He  remembered 
that  Uncle  Jim  was  close  by,  spending  the  evening  with 
Mr.  Jones,  a  sick  neighbor  ;  and  he  thought  it  would  be 
peculiarly  appropriate  that  he  who  had  broken  to  them 
the  bad  news  should  now  convey  to  them  the  antidote. 

The}"  met  Uncle  Jim  just  as  he  was  coming  out  of  Xeigh- 
bor  Jones's  door.  He  went  back  into  the  house  with  them, 
where  he  remained  to  recover  a  little  from  his  astonishment, 
and  to  hear  enough  of  Clint's  story  to  enable  him  to  unfold 
the  truth  by  degi^ees  to  the  old  couple  ;  then  set  out  on 
his  new  mission.  Phil  waited  for  him  to  do  his  errand, 
and  for  Clint  to  get  warm  by  Mrs.  Jones's  fire,  and  to  eat 
a  leg  of  cold  turkey  from  Mrs.  Jones's  larder,  then  took 
him  home,  entering  the  house  with  him,  as  we  have  seen. 

Clint  was  looking  well,  but  rather  shabby.  .He  was  in^ 
clincd  to  swagger  a  little,  and  to  show  a  manly  distaste 
for  the  fuss  made  over  him.  Old  man  Dracutt  scarcely 
uttered  a  word,  but  appeared  fairly  dazed  by  what  seemed 
to  him  more  a  dream  of  his  grandson's  return  than  a 
reality,  and  stood  with  silent  tears  coursing  down  his  aged 
cheeks.     The   old  lady  kissed  the   boy  often   enough  for 


IN   THE  ICE.  245 

both  ;  and  repeated  again  and  again  the  question  before 
he  could  get  breath  between  the  caresses  to  answer  it, 
"  Where  have  you  been,  CHnton  1  Chnton,  0  CUnton  ! 
where  have  you  been  '?  " 

"  Not  to  the  bottom  of  the  pond,  by  a  long  chalk  !  " 
said  Clint,  getting  away  from  her,  and  seating  himself, 
while  all  sat  around  him,  in  the  dimly  lighted  kitchen. 
"  I  never  went  back  on  to  the  ice  at  all,  after  I  left  Phil. 
I  just  went  the  other  way,  as  fast  as  ever  my  legs  could 
carry  me  ;  and  pitched  those  hammers  into  a  corner  of  the 
fence,  the  first  thing.  I  had  no  idea  where  I  was  going ; 
but  I  was  so  disgusted  with  everybody  and  everything, 
and  myself  in  particular,  that  all  I  thought  of  was  to  get 
away  out  of  sight,  somewhere. 

"  I  had  n't  gone  far  when  a  man  came  along  in  a  buggy. 
'  Give  me  a  ride  1 '  says  I.  '  Hop  in,'  says  he.  '  Rather 
hard  travelling,'  says  I.  '  Yes,'  says  he  ;  '  I  got  caught  by 
the  snow  last  night ;  that  comes,'  says  he,  '  of  travelling 
on  Sunday.'  We  got  acquainted  as  we  rode  along,  and  I 
found  out  he  was  a  horse-doctor,  and  that  he  lived  at  the' 
Port.  I  said  I  was  going  there  to  look  for  a  situation, 
and  told  him  I  knew  a  good  deal  more  about  horses  than  I 
suppose  was  exactly  consistent  with  the  truth.  You  see, 
as  he  talked  horse,  I  talked  horse  out  of  sympathy.  We 
made  a  few  stops,  and  got  to  his  house  about  noon ;  then 
he  asked  me  to  dinner  ;  and  after  dinner  he  said  he  could 
give  me  a  job  if  I  would  like  one.  He  had  a  pair  of  horses 
on  his  hands  that  he  wanted  to  send  up  into  New  Hampshire 
to  be  boarded  for  the  winter  ;  and  offered  me  five  dollars 
if  I  would  go  and  take  care  of  them  on  the  way.  He  paid 
me  in  advance  ;  and  the  next  day  I  started,  went  by  rail- 
road, and  got  to  the  place  the  next  night.  It  was  a  coun- 
try tavern  ;  and  the  landlord  said  he  could  n't  keep  the 
team,  although  he  had  agreed  to,  for  his  hostler  had  just 


246  IN  THE  ICE. 

left  him,  and  he  did  n't  know  about  hiring  another. 
'Maybe,'  says  I,  'you  'd  Hke  to  hire  meV  We  struck  a 
bargain  in  about  a  minute,  and  I  went  to  work,  thinking 
I  was  going  to  be  in  clover. 

"  I  stayed  with  him  till  yesterday  morning,  when  I  left 
in  a  hurry.  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  tell  ye, 
't  was  rough.  Big  job  and  small  pay.  I  began  to  think 
of  home,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  I  'd  been  a  dunce  to 
leave  it." 

"But  why  did  you  leave  it,  Clint  1"  asked  Phil.  "Your 
getting  angry  with  me  was  no  good  reason." 

"  Well,  I  had  got  mad  with  the  old  folks  too." 

"  But  was  there  nobody  else  you  cared  for  ]  " 

"  Well  —  yes  —  no  —  fact  is,"  said  Clint,  "  there  was 
another  thing  that  disgusted  me.  You  know  you  left  me 
the  night  before  with  —  you  know  who.  Well,  I  may  as 
well  own  it,  I  stayed  and  made  a  fool  of  myself.  She 
did  n't  care  that  for  me,"  Clint  snapped  his  fingers.  "  I 
found  't  was  somebody  else  she  cared  for  ;  and  that  some- 
hod  y  else  made  me  mad  as  fury,  next  morning,  in  the 
tool-house." 

Phil  rose  somewhat  hurriedly  after  this,  and  took  his 
hat. 

"  Don't  go  !  "  cried  Clint.  "  That  's  all  right  now,  ye 
know." 

"  Yes  ;  glad  you  Ve  forgiven  me.  But  I  —  I  've  a  little 
matter  of  business  to  look  after.  And  as  I  've  heard  the 
rest  of  your  story,  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning,  Clint." 

With  these  words,  Phil  hastened  away,  to  look  after  the 
"  little  matter  of  business  "  that  had  so  suddenly  claimed 
his  attention,  leaving  Clint  to  relate  to  the  old  people  how 
he  had  that  day  walked  all  the  way  from  the  Port,  and 
met  the  late  foreman,  after  crossing  the  pond. 

"  So  you  thought   I  was  in  the  ice,   this   winter,  with 


IN  THE  ICE.  247 

a  vengeance,  did  ye?  Now,  if  that  a' n't  the  coolest 
joke  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Jim,  "  and  we  were  talkin'  about 
havin'  a  funeral  sermon  preached  for  you." 

Whereupon  the  young  man  almost  went  into  convul- 
sions of  laughter. 

"  I  wish  I  'd  known  it.  I  'd  have  stayed  away,  put  on 
false  whiskers  and  goggles,  and  come  to  my  own  funeral. 
Would  n't  it  have  been  rich  1  'T  a'n't  often  a  man  can  do 
that.  Wonder  if  the  minister  would  have  made  me  out  a 
saint  1  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  Why  did  n't  I  know  of  it,  and  come 
to  my  own  funeral  1  There  never  was  such  a  rare  chance 
for  sport,  and,  by  George,  I  've  missed  it ! " 


X. 

A   GOLDEN    WEDDING,    AFTER   ALL. 

In  the  mean  while,  Mr.  Phil  Kermer  walked  very  fast, 
and  in  a  very  extraordinary  direction  for  a  man  of  business 
at  that  time  of  night,  namely,  to  Uncle  Jim's  door,  when 
he  knew  very  well  that  Uncle  Jim  was  n't  at  home.  He 
seemed  to  think  it  necessary  that  Emma  should  be  at 
once  informed  of  the  joyful  news  of  Clint's  resurrection.  It 
was  joyful  news,  indeed,  his  coming  conveyed  to  her, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  he  himself  appeared  almost 
like  one  raised  from  the  dead,  to  eyes  even  then  red  with 
weeping  —  not  for  Clint. 

When  Uncle  Jim  returned  home,  and  found  a  happy 
couple  sitting  up  for  him  (of  course,  they  could  n't  have 
been  sitting  up  for  anything  else  at  that  time  of  night), 
Mr.  Phil's  little  matter  of  business  seemed  to  have  been 
quite  satisfactorily  arranged. 


248  IN  THE  ICE. 

One  other  little  matter  remained  for  Phil  to  attend  to. 
on  reaching  his  own  lodgings  ;  which  was,  to  destroy  the 
letter  he  had  written  to  the  president  of  the  Ice  Com- 
pany, and  to  write  another  in  its  place,  which  consisted  of 
two  words,  simply  :  — 

"  /  accept r 

The  next  day  Phil  entered  on  his  new  duties  as  foreman, 
with  an  energy  that  augured  well  for  his  own  future  and 
for  the  interests  of  the  company. 

The  haiwest  had  begun  ;  an  army  of  men  and  horses 
were  at  work,  cutting  fields  of  ice  into  checkers,  and 
breaking  up  these  checkers  into  blocks  to  be  raised  by 
machiner}^,  and  stored  in  the  great  ice-houses ;  when,  to- 
ward noon.  Farmer  Corbett,  who  had  been  kept  away  from 
the  pond  by  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  came  limping  along, 
with  a  puckered  and  suffering  countenance,  to  see  what 
was  going  on. 

"  We  've  begun  to  cut,  you  see,"  said  Phil.  "  And  Clint 
has  been  found." 

"You  don't  say!     Where?" 

"  I  discovered  him,  when  taking  a  look  at  the  ice  off 
Jones's  shore." 

"  I  telled  ye  so  !  I  telled  ye  so ! "  said  the  prophet, 
although  the  spot  indicated  was  half  a  mile  from  the  deep 
water  which  his  theory  favored.  "  Exac'ly  where  I  said. 
Froze  in  the  ice,  was  n't  he  %     Ye  remember  what  I  telled 

ye."  ^ 

'•'  Not  precisely  frozen  into  the  ice,  —  he  was  walking  on 
the  ice,"  said  Phil. 

"  Not  drownded  % "  cried  the  old  farmer,  with  alarm. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  but  alive  and  well,  Mr.  Corbett." 

Whereat  the  prophet's  countenance,  which  had  bright- 
ened wonderfull}^  a  moment  before,  assumed  once  more  its 
puckered  and  suffering  expression,  and  he  was  observed  to 


IN   THE   ICE.  •  249 

limp  away  more  painfully  than  ever.  At  first,  he  pro- 
fessed an  utter  disbelief  in  Clint's  return  to  life,  declaring 
it  to  be  "  agin  natiu'',  and  agin  reason  "  ;  but  after  he  had 
beheld  with  his  own  eyes  the  miracle  of  the  young  man 
moving  about  bodily  on  the  pond  (for  Clint  was  "  in  the 
ice "  again,  with  his  friend  Phil),  he  consoled  himself  by 
saying  that  "  if  the  feller  had  'a'  been  drownded,  he  'd  'a' 
been  found  exac'ly  as  he  tolled  'em." 

Clint  got  along  very  well  with  Phil,  and,  consequently, 
with  everybody  else  on  the  pond,  after  this.  We  must 
here  do  him  the  justice  to  add,  that  he  gets  along  very 
w^ell  with  the  old  folks  too.  A  fortnight's  rough  experience 
as  hostler  and  man-of-all-work  in  a  country  tavern,  under 
a  hard  master,  had  prepared  him  to  appreciate  the  privi- 
leges and  comforts  of  home  ;  while  the  great  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  his  grandparents  did  much  to  bring 
about  a  reform  of  manners  in  him. 

Clint  missed  the  chance  of  attending  his  own  funeral, 
but  he  had  something,  perhaps,  quite  as  good  in  its  stead. 

"  Did  you  think,  Jonathan,"  said  old  lady  Dracutt,  one 
day,  "  that  that  was  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  our  weddin' 
the  night  'fore  Clinton  went  away." 

"  Yes ;  and  I  've  thought  on  't  a  good  deal  sence,"  replied 
the  old  man.  "  I  'm  sorry  it  should  have  passed  so. 
Some  people  have  a  golden  weddin'  on  that  anniversary. 
I  don't  think  we  desarve  a  golden  weddin'  exactly  ;  but  if 
any  old  couple  ever  needed  to  set  the  example  of  bein' 
married  over  agin,  in  a  new  sperit,  it  's  you  and  me,  Jane. 
Don't  you  think  so  1 " 

"  I  do  !  I  do  !  I  wish  that  anniversary  was  n't  past ; 
though  maybe  it  a'n't  too  late  to  have  our  golden  weddin' 
now.  Our  unnat'ral  way  of  livin'  together  has  been  known 
to  everybody  so  long,  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  like  to  make  some 
public  profession  of  our  change  of  feelin's,  — jest  have  our 
11* 


250  IN   THE  ICE. 

friends  come  in  and  see  us  married  over  agin,  in  a  better 
sperit,  as  you  say." 

Friends  favored  the  idea,  and  proffered  their  assistance ; 
and  so  it  happened  that,  instead  of  a  funeral  in  the  old 
Dracutt  house,  there  was,  before  many  days,  a  golden 
wedding. 

The  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  occasion  invested  it 
with  extraordinary  interest;  everybody  seemed  eager  to 
witness  the  second  marriage  of  an  aged  couple  who  had 
lived  separated  under  the  same  roof,  without  speaking  to 
each  other,  for  so  many  years.  Their  first  marriage,  fifty 
years  before,  had  been  called  a  romantic  one  ;  but  this,  all 
things  considered,  was  even  more  romantic  —  it  was  cer- 
tainly far  more  significant  —  than  that. 

Old  and  young  were  present,  a  houseful  of  guests,  — 
those  who  had  lived  through  the  great  experience  of 
wedded  life,  and  those  who  were  just  entering  upon  it, 
with  youthful  passions  and  rainbow-colored  hopes.  Nor 
were  absent  little  children,  yet  innocent  of  the  sweet  but 
awful  knowledge  of  love.  All  Emma's  little  flock  were 
there,  even  down  to  little  Sissy,  whose  dancing,  golden 
curls  and  cherubic  cheeks  presented  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  of  the  aged  pair.  Dear,  laugh- 
ter-loving child  !  the  world  was  all  before  her  now,  while 
they  were  leaving  it  fast  behind  them.  Little  she  thought 
that  she  would  ever  grow  old,  and  grizzled,  and  infirm,  like 
them.  Yet  that  aged  bride,  so  bent,  was  once  a  beauteous, 
beaming  child  like  her;  and  who  knows  what  shadowy 
cares  may  come  on  the  wings  of  the  swift  years  to  darken 
and  trouble  that  little  one's  dream  of  life  1  For  when 
seventy  birthdays  more  shall  have  passed  over  her,  and 
her  golden  wedcfmg-day  shall  have  come,  and  she  looks 
back  to  this  day,  will  the  long  life  between,  with  all  its 
joys  and  disappointments,  seem  anything  else  but  a 
dream  1 


IN   THE   ICE.  •  251 

All  the  old  people  who  could  be  found,  that  had  been 
present  at  Jonathan  and  Jane's  first  wedding,  were  invited 
to  this  ;  and,  strange  and  sad  to  say,  only  four  out  of  all 
that  happy  company  could  be  obtained,  —  three  besides 
Cousin  Jim  !  What  a  solemn  commentary  was  that  upon 
the  fleeting  shows  of  the  world  !  If  length  of  years  and 
worldly  pleasure  and  gain  were  all  of  life,  it  would  not 
seem  to  amount  to  very  much,  after  all,  —  do  you  really 
think  it  would,  my  octogenarian  friend] 

It  was  a  sad  though  happy  occasion  to  the  aged  bride 
and  bridegroom  ;  and  when,  after  the  wedding  ceremony, 
friends  crowded  around  to  congratulate  them,  they  could 
not  refrain  from  tears. 

"  I  feel,"  said  old  man  Dracutt,  "  that  we  are  married 
now,  not  for  time,  but  for  etarnity.  I  don't  regret  that  life 
is  short,  but  that  so  much  of  our  life  has  been  misspent." 

"  Don't  say  your  experience  of  life  has  not  been  good 
and  useful  to  you,"  cried  cheery  old  Uncle  Jim.  "  I  'm 
sartin  it  has." 

"Yes,  in  one  respect  it  surely  has,"  said  Jane,  smiling 
through  her  tears.  "  The  habit  of  not  speaking  to  each 
other,  under  any  provocation,  beats  everything  in  the  way 
of  discipline  I  ever  heard  of.  It  has  given  me  a  command 
of  my  own  temper,  which  maybe  I  could  never  have  got 
in  any  other  way.  Try  it,  you  that  need  such  a  discipline, 
—  but  not  in  the  way  we  did.  0,  if  people  would  only 
learn  to  do  for  love  what  we  did  for  pride  and  resentment, 
and  bridle  the  tongue,  what  a  mortal  Paradise  married  life 
might  be  ! " 

"  Wal,  wal ! "  cried  Uncle  Jim,  determined  that  the  occa- 
sion should  pass  off  joyously ;  "  I  don't  see  but  what  you 
have  about  as  much  to  be  thankful  for  as  any  of  us.  Clint 
has  come  home  all  the  wiser  for  his  little  trip  up  into 
New  Hampshire,  and  —  " 


252  IN  THE  ICE. 

"And  ive  have  got  out  of  the  ice,  too,"  said  old  man 
Dracutt,  smiling;  "for  it  was  us  that  was  froze  all  the 
time,  without  knowin'  it." 

"Yes,  yes;  but 'you 're  thawed*  out  now,  and  all  our 
hearts  are  softer  and  better  for  your  experience.  Old  age 
a'n't  such  a  bad  thing ;  I  want  our  young  friends  here  to 
learn  from  us  to-night  that  it  a'n't.  I  believe  that  I  grow 
cheerfuller  than  ever  as  I  grow  older ;  and  it  will  always 
be  so,  if  we  only  learn  to  regard  life,  not  as  a  thing  to  be 
prized  and  clung  to  for  itself  alone,  but  only  as  a  disci- 
pline, as  you  say,  Jane,  —  only  as  a  discipline  and  a  prepa- 
ration for  a  higher  and  happier  futur'." 

"  If  I  can  get  to  look  at  it  in  that  way,  then  I  sha'  n't  feel 
that  so  much  of  my  life  has  been  wasted,"  said  the  bride- 
groom, shaking  Uncle  Jim's  hand.  "  But,  0  my  friends  ! " 
shaking  hands  with  the  younger  guests,  "may  you  be 
saved  from  the  necessity  of  such  a  discipline  as  we  ha^e 
had  !  To  avoid  that,  take  from  me  one  word  of  advice, 
especially  you  that  are  about  to  marry  :  never  let  any- 
thing stand  in  the  way  of  perfect  harmony  and  trust  in- 
one  another ;  but  give  up  everything,  give  up  every- 
thing for  LOVE  ! " 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  the  old  man  looked 
very  particularly  at  Emma  Welford  and  Phil  Kermer  as 
he  said  this. 


I^AKCT    BLTIs"H"'S    LOYEES. 


WILLIAM  TANSLEY,  f-imiliarly  called  Tip,  having 
finished  his  afternoon's  work  in  Judge  Boxton's 
garden,  milked  the  cows,  and  given  the  calves  and  pigs 
their  supper,  —  not  forgetting  to  make  sure  of  his  own,  — 
stole  out  of  the  house  with  his  Sunday  jacket,  and  the 
secret  intention  of  going  "  a  sparking." 

Tip's  manner  of  setting  about  this  delicate  business  was 
characteristic  of  his  native  shrewdness.  He  usually  went 
well  provided  with  gifts ;  and  on  the  present  occasion, 
before  quitting  the  Judge's  premises,  he  "  drew  upon  "  a 
certain  barrel  in  the  barn,  which  was  his  bank,  where  he 
had  made,  during  the  day,  frequent  deposits  of  green  corn, 
of  the  diminutive  species  called  tvchet,  smuggled  in  from 
the  garden,  and  designed  for  roasting  and  eating  with  the 
Widow  Blynn's  pretty  daughter.  Stealthily,  in  the  dusk, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  listen.  Tip  brought  out  the  little 
milky  ears  from  beneath  the  straw,  crammed  his  pockets 
with  them,  and  packed  full  the  crown  of  his  old  straw  hat ; 
then,  with  the  sides  of  his  jacket  distended,  his  trousers 
bulged,  and  a  toppling  weight  on  his  head,  he  peeped  cau- 
tiously from  the  door  to  see  that  the  way  was  clear  for  an 
escape  to  the  orchard,  and  thence,  "  'cross  lots,"  to  the 
Widow  Blynn's  house. 

Tip  was  creeping  furtively  behind  a  wall,  stooping,  with 
one  hand  steadying  his  hat  and  the  other  his  pockets, 
when  a  voice  called  his  name. 


254  NANCY  BLYNX'S  LOVERS. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Cephas  Boxton.  Xow  if  there  was  a 
person  in  the  world  whom  Tip  feared  and  hated,  it  was 
"that  CejDhe,"  and  this  for  many  reasons,  the  chief  of 
which  was  that  the  Judge's  son  did,  upon  occasions,  flirt 
with  Miss  Nancy  Blynn,  who,  sharing  the  popular  preju- 
dice in  favor  of  fine  clothes  and  riches,  preferred,  appar- 
ently, a  single  passing  glance  from  Cephas  to  all  Tip's  gifts 
and  attentions. 

Tip  dropped  down  behind  the  wall. 

''  Tip  Tausley  ! "  again  called  the  hated  voice. 

But  the  proprietor  of  that  euphonious  name,  not  choosing 
to  answer  to  it,  remained  quiet,  one  hand  still  supporting 
his  hat,  the  other  his  pockets,  while  young  Boxton,  to 
whom  glimpses  of  the  aforesaid  hat,  appearing  over  the 
edge  of  the  wall,  had  previously  been  visible,  stepped 
quickly  and  noiselessly  to  the  spot.  Tip  crouched,  with  his 
unconscious  eyes  in  the  grass ;  Cephas  watched  him  good- 
humoredly,  leaning  over  the  wall. 

*'  If  it  is  n't  Tip,  what  is  it  1"  And  Cephas  struck  one 
side  of  the  distended  jacket  with  his  cane.  An  ear  of  corn 
dropped  out.  He  struck  the  other  side,  and  out  dropped 
another  ear.  A  couple  of  smart  blows  across  the  back  suc- 
ceeded, followed  by  more  corn ;  and  at  the  same  time  Tip, 
getting  up,  and  endeavoring  to  protect  his  pockets,  let  go 
his  hat,  which  fell  off,  spilling  its  contents  in  the  grass. 

"Did  3^ou  calH"  gasped  the  panic-stricken  Tip. 

The  rivals  stood  with  the  wall  between  them,  —  as  ludi- 
crous a  contrast,  I  dare  assert,  as  ever  two  lovers  of  one 
woman  presented. 

Tip,  abashed  and  afraid,  brushed  the  hair  out  of  his 
eyes,  and  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  look  the  hand- 
some and  smiling  Cephas  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  pretend  you  did  not  hear  —  with  all  these 
ears  ? "  said  the  Judge's  son. 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  255 

<<  I  —  I  was  huntin'  fur  a  shoestring,"  murmured  Tip, 
casting  dismayed  glances  along  the  ground.  "  I  lost  one 
here  som'eres." 

"  Tip,"  said  Cephas,  putting  his  cane  under  Master  Tans- 
ley's  chin  to  assist  him  in  holding  up  his  head,  "  look  me 
in  the  eye,  and  tell  me,  — what  is  the  difference  'twixt  you 
and  that  corn  ]  " 

''  I  d'n'  know  —  what  1 "  And,  liberating  his  chin,  Tip 
dropped  his  head  again,  and  began  kicking  in  the  grass  in 
search  of  the  imaginary  shoestring. 

"  That  is  lying  on  the  ground,  and  you  are  lying  —  on 
your  feet,"  said  Cephas. 

Tip  replied  that  he  was  going  to  the  woods  for  bean- 
poles, and  that  he  took  the  corn  to  feed  the  cattle  in  the 
"  back  pastur',  'cause  they  hooked." 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  innocent  of  hooking  as  the  cattle 
are  !  "  said  the  incredulous  Cephas.  "  Go  and  put  the  sad- 
dle on  Pericles." 

Tip  proceeded  in  a  straight  line  to  the  stable,  his  pock- 
ets dropping  corn  by  the  way;  while  Cephas,  laughing 
quietly,  walked  up  and  dowA  under  the  trees. 

"  Hoss  's  ready,"  muttered  Tip,  from  the  barn  door. 

Instead  of  leading  Pericles  out,  he  left  him  in  the  stall, 
and  climbed  up  into  the  hayloft  to  hide,  and  brood  over 
his  misfortune  until  his  rival's  departure.  It  was  not  alone 
the  affair  of  the  stolen  corn  that  troubled  Tip ;  but  from 
the  fact  that  Pericles  was  ordered,  he  suspected  that  Ce- 
phas likewise  purposed  paying  a  visit  to  Nancy  Blynn. 
Resolved  to  wait  and  watch,  he  lay  under  the  dusty  roof, 
chewing  the  bitter  cud  of  envy,  and  now  and  then  a  stem  of 
new-mown  timoth}^,  till  Cephas  entered  the  stalls  beneath, 
and  said  "  Be  still !  "  in  his  clear,  resonant  tones,  to  Pericles. 

Pericles  uttered  a  quick,  low  whinny  of  recognition,  and 
ceased  pawing  the  floor. 


256  NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVEES. 

"  Are  you  there,  Cephas  T'  presently  said  another  voice. 

It  was  that  of  the  Judge,  who  had  followed  his  son  into 
the  barn.     Tip  lay  with  his  elbows  on  the  hay,  and  listened. 

"  Going  to  ride,  are  you  1     Who  saddled  this  horse  1 " 

"  Tip,"  replied  Cephas. 

"  He  did  n't  half  curry  him.  Wait  a  minute.  I  'm 
ashamed  to  let  a  horse  go  out  looking  so." 

And  the  Judge  began  to  polish  off  Pericles  with  wisps  of 
straw. 

"  Darned  ef  I  care  !  "  muttered  Tip. 

"  Cephas,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  don't  want  to  make  you 
vain,  but  I  must  say  you  ride  the  handsomest  colt  in  the 
county.  I  'm  proud  of  Pericles.  Does  his  shoe  j)inch  him 
lately  1 " 

"  Not  since  't  was  set.  He  looks  well  enough,  father. 
Your  eyes  are  better  than  mine,"  said  Cephas,  "  if  you  can 
see  any  dust  on  his  coat." 

"  I  luf  to  rub  a  colt,  — it  does  'em  so  much  good,"  rejoined 
the  Judge.  "  Cephas,  if  you  're  going  by  'Squire  Stedman's, 
I  'd  like  to  have  you  call  and  get  that  mortgage." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ride  that  way,  father.  I  '11  go  for 
it  in  the  morning,  however." 

"  Never  mind,  unless  you  happen  that  way.  Just  hand 
me  a  wisp  of  that  straw,  Cephas." 

Cephas  handed  his  father  the  straw.  The  Judge  rubbed 
away  some  seconds  longer,  then  said  carelessly,  "  If  you 
are  going  up  the  mountain,  I  wish  you  would  stop  and 
tell  Colby  I  '11  take  those  lambs,  and  send  for  'em  next 
week." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  go  as  far  as  Colby's,"  replied 
Cephas. 

"  People  say  "  —  the  Judge's  voice  changed  slightly  — 
"you  don't  often  get  farther  than  the  Widow  Blynn's  when 
you  travel  that  road.     How  is  it  1 " 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  257 

"  Ask  the  widow,"  said  Cephas. 

"Ask  her  daughter,  more  Hke,"  rejoined  the  Judge. 
''Cephas,  I've  kind  o'  felt  as  though  I  ought  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  you  about  that  matter.  I  hope  you  a'n't 
fooling  the  girl,  Cephas." 

And  the  Judge,  having  broached  the  subject  to  which 
all  his  rubbing  had  been  introductory  and  his  remarks  a 
prologue,  waited  anxiously  for  his  son's  reply. 

Cephas  assured  him  that  he  could  never  be  guilty  of 
fooling  any  girl,  much  less  one  so  worthy  as  Miss  Nancy 
Blynn. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it !  "  exclaimed  the  Judge.  "  Of 
course  I  never  believed  you  could  do  such  a  thing.  But 
we  should  be  careful  of  appearances,  Cephas.  (Just  an- 
other little  handful  of  straw  ;  that  will  do.)  People  have 
already  got  up  the  absurd  story  that  you  are  going  to 
marry  Nancy." 

Tip's  ears  tingled.  There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  rustling  of  the  straw.  Then  Cephas  said, 
"  Why  absurd,  father  1 " 

"Absurd  —  because  —  why,  of  course  it  isn't  true,  is 
itr' 

"  I  must  confess,  father,"  replied  Cephasj  "  the  idea  has 
occurred  to  me  that  Nancy  —  would  make  me  —  a  good 
wife." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  which  was  most  astonished  by 
this  candid  avowal,  the  Judge  or  Master  William  Tansley. 
The  latter  had  never  once  imagined  that  Cephas's  intentions 
respecting  Nancy  were  so  serious  ;  and  now  the  inevitable 
conviction  forced  upon  him,  that,  if  his  rich  rival  really 
wished  to  marry  her,  there  was  no  possible  chance  left  for 
him,  smote  his  heart  with  qualms  of  despair. 

"Cephas,  you  stagger  me!"  said  the  Judge.  "A 
young  man  of  your  education  and  prospects  — " 

Q 


258  NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

*'  Nancy  is  not  -without  some  education,  father,"  inter- 
posed Cephas,  as  the  Judge  hesitated.  "  Better  than  that, 
she  has  heart  and  soul.  She  is  worthy  to  be  any  man's 
wife ! " 

Although  Tip  entertained  precisely  the  same  opinions, 
he  was  greatly  dismayed  to  hear  them  expressed  so  gener- 
ously by  Cephas. 

The  Judge  rubbed  away  again  at  Pericles's  flanks  and 
shoulders  with  wisps  of  straw. 

"  No  doubt,  Cephas,  you  think  so ;  and  I  have  n't  any- 
thing agin  Nancy ;  she 's  a  good  girl  enough,  fur 's  1 
know.  But  just  reflect  on  't,  —  you  're  of  age,  and  in  one 
sense  you  can  do  as  you  please,  but  you  a'n't  too  old  to 
hear  to  reason.  You  know  you  might  marry  'most  any 
girl  you  choose." 

"  So  I  thought,  and  I  choose  Nancy,"  answered  Cephas, 
preparing  to  lead  out  Pericles. 

"  I  wish  the  hoss  'd  fling  him,  and  break  his  neck ! " 
whispered  the  devil  in  Tip's  heart. 

"Don't  be  hasty;  wait  a  minute,  Cephas,"  said  the 
Judge.  "You  know  what  I  mean, — you  could  marry 
rich.  Take  a  practical  view  of  the  matter.  Get  rid  of 
these  boyish  notions.  Just  think  how  it  will  look  for  a 
young  man  of  your  cloth  —  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars 
any  day  I  'm  a  mind  to  give  it  to  you  —  to  go  and  marry 
the  Widow  Blynn's  daughter,  —  a  girl  that  takes  in  sewing  ! 
AVhat  are  ye  thinking  of,  Cephas  ? " 

"  I  hear,"  replied  Cephas,  quietly,  "she  does  her  sewing 
well." 

"  Suppose  she  does  1  She  'd  make  a  good  enough  wife 
for  some  such  fellow  as  Tip,  no  doubt;  but  I  thought  a 
son  of  mine  would  ha'  looked  higher.  Think  of  you  and 
Tip  after  the  same  girl !  Come,  if  you  've  any  pride  about 
you,  you  '11  pull  the  saddle  off'  the  colt  and  stay  at  home." 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  259 

Although  the  Judge's  speech,  as  we  perceive,  was  not 
quite  free  from  provincialisms,  his  arguments  were  none 
the  less  powerful  on  that  account.  He  said  a  good  deal 
more  in  the  same  strain,  holding  out  threats  of  unforgive- 
ness  and  disinheritance  on  the  one  hand,  and  praise  and 
promises  on  the  other ;  Cephas  standing  with  the  bridle 
in  his  hand,  and  poor  Tip's  anxious  heart  beating  like  a 
pendulum  between  the  hope  that  his  rival  would  be  con- 
vinced and  the  fear  that  he  would  not. 

*'  The  question  is  simply  this,  father,"  said  Cephas, 
growing  impatient :  "  which  to  choose,  love  or  money '? 
And  I  assure  you  I  'd  much  rather  please  you  than  dis- 
please you." 

"  That 's  the  way  to  talk,  Cephas  !  That  sounds  like  !  " 
exclaimed  the  Judge. 

"But  if  I  choose  money,"  Cephas  hastened  to  say, 
"  money  it  shall  be.  I  ought  to  make  a  good  thing  out 
of  it.     What  will  you  give  to  make  it  an  object  1 " 

*^  Give  ]  Give  you  all  I  've  got,  of  course.  What  's 
mine  is  yours,  —  or  will  be,  some  day." 

"  Some  day  is  n't  the  thing.  I  prefer  one  good  bird  in 
the  hand  to  any  number  of  fine  songsters  in  the  bush. 
Give  me  five  thousand  dollars,  and  it 's  a  bargain." 

"  Pooh  !    pooh  !  "  said  the  Judge. 

"  Very  well ;  then  stand  aside  and  let  me  and  Pericles 


"Don't  be  unreasonable,  Cephas'?  Let  the  colt  stand. 
What  do  you  want  of  five  thousand  dollars  1, " 

"  Never  mind ;  if  you  don't  see  fit  to  give  it,  I  '11  go  and 
see  Nancy." 

'•  No,  no,  you  sha'  n't !  Let  go  the  bridle  !  I  'd  ruther 
give  ten  thousand." 

"  Very  well ;  give  me  ten,  then  !  " 

'*  I  mean  —  don't  go  to  being  wild  and  headstrong  now  ! 


260  •       NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

I  '11  give  you  a  thousand  dollars,  if  nothing  else  will  satisfy 
you." 

"  I'll  divide  the  difference  with  you,"  said  Cephas. 
''You  shall  give  me  three  thousand,  and  that,  you  must 
confess,  is  very  little." 

"  It 's  a  bargain  ! "  exclaimed  the  Judge.  And  Tip  was 
thrilled  with  joy. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  stick  to  five  thousand  !  "  said 
Cephe.  "But  I  wish  to  ask,  can  I,  for  instance,  marry 
Melissa  More  1  Next  to  Nancy,  she  is  the  prettiest  girl  in 
town." 

"  But  she  has  no  position ;  there  is  the  same  objection. 
to  her  there  is  to  Nancy.  The  bargain  is,  you  are  not  to 
marry  any  poor  girl ;  and  I  mean  to  have  it  in  writing. 
So  puU  off  the  saddle  and  come  into  the  house." 

*'  If  I  had  been  shrewd  I  might  just  as  well  have  got 
five  thousand,"  said  Cephas. 

Tip  Tansley,  more  excited  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life,  waited  until  the  two  had  left  the  bam ;  then,  creeping 
over  the  hay,  hitting  his  head  in  the  dark  against  the 
low  rafters,  he  slid  down  from  his  hiding-place,  carefully 
descended  the  stairs,  gathered  up  what  he  could  find  of 
the  scattered  ears  of  tucket,  and  set  out  to  run  through  the 
orchard  and  across  the  fields  to  the  Widow  Blynn's  cottage. 
The  evening  was  starry,  and  the  edges  of  the  few  dark 
clouds  that  lay  low  in  the  east  predicted  the  rising  moon. 
Halting  only  to  climb  fences,  or  to  pick  up  now  and  then 
the  corn  that  persisted  in  dropping  from  his  pockets,  or  to 
scrutinize  some  object  that  he  thought  looked  "pokerish" 
in  the  dark,  prudently  shunning  the  dismal  woods  on  one 
side,  and  the  pasture  where  the  "  hooking  "  cattle  were  on 
the  other.  Tip  kept  on,  and  amved,  all  palpitating  and 
perspiring,  at  the  widow's  house,  just  as  the  big  red  moon 
was  coming  up  amidst  the  clouds  over  the  hill.     He  had 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  261 

left  a  good  deal  of  his  corn  and  all  his  courage  behind  him 
in  his  flight :  for  Tip,  ardently  as  he  loved  the  beautiful 
Nancy,  could  lay  no  claim  to  her  on  the  poetical  ground 
that  "  the  brave  deserve  the  fair." 

With  uncertain  knuckles  Tip  rapped  on  the  humble 
door,  having  first  looked  through  the  kitchen  window,  and 
seen  the  widow  sitting  within,  sewing  by  the  light  of  a 
tallow  candle. 

"  Good  evening,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  opening  the 
door,  with  her  spectacles  on  her  forehead,  and  her  work 
gathered  up  in  her  lap  under  her  bent  figure.  "  Come  in ; 
take  a  chair." 

"  Guess  I  can't  stop,"  replied  Tip,  sidling  into  the  room 
with  his  hat  on.  "How  's  all  the  folks'?  Nancy  to 
huml" 

"  Nancy 's  up  stairs  ;  I  '11  speak  to  her.  —  Nancy,"  called 
the  widow  at  the  chamber  door,  "  Tip  is  here  !  —  Better 
take  a  chair  while  you  stop,"  she  added,  smiling  upon  the 
visitor,  who  always,  on  arriving,  "  guessed  he  could  n't 
stop,"  and  usually  ended  by  remaining  until  he  was  sent 
away. 

"  Wal,  may  as  well ;  jest  as  cheap  settin'  as  standin'," 
said  Tip,  depositing  the  burden  of  his  personality  —  weight, 
146  lbs.  — upon  one  of  the  creaky,  splint-bottomed  chairs. 
"  Pooty  warm  night,  kind  o',"  raising  his  arm  to  wipe  his 
face  with  his  sleeve ;  upon  which  an  ear  of  that  discon- 
tented tucket  took  occasion  to  tumble  upon  the  floor. 
"  Hello  !  what 's  that  ?  By  gracious,  if  't  a'n't  green  corn  ! 
Got  any  fire  1     Guess  we  '11  have  a  roast." 

And  Tip,  taking  off  his  hat,  began  to  empty  his  stuffed 
pockets  into  it. 

"  Law  me ! "  said  the  widow,  squinting  over  her  work. 
"•  I  thought  your  pockets  stuck  out  amazin' !  I  ha'n't 
had  the  first  taste  of  green  corn  this  year.     It 's  real  kind 


262  NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

o'  thoughtful  in  you,  Tip ;  but  the  fire  's  all  out,  and  we 
can't  think  of  roastin'  on  't  to-night,  as  I  see." 

"  Mebby  Nancy  will,"  chuckled  Tip.  "  A'n't  she  comin' 
down  1  —  Any  time  to-night,  Nancy  ! "  cried  Tip,  raising 
his  voice,  to  be  heard  by  his  beloved  in  her  retreat. 
"You  do'no'  what  I  brought  ye  ! " 

Now,  sad  as  the  truth  may  sound  to  the  reader  sympa- 
thizing with  Tip,  Nancy  cared  little  what  he  had  brought, 
and  experienced  no  very  ardent  desire  to  come  down  and 
meet  him.  She  sat  at  her  window,  looking  at  the  stars, 
and  thinking  of  somebody  who  she  had  hoped  would  visit 
her  that  night.  But  that  somebody  was  not  Tip;  and 
although  the  first  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  set  her  heart 
fluttering  with  expectation,  his  near  approach,  breathing 
fast  and  loud,  had  given  her  a  chill  of  disappointment, 
almost  of  disgust,  and  she  now  much  preferred  her  own 
thoughts,  and  the  moonrise  through  the  trees  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Judge  Boxton's  house,  to  all  the  gi'een  corn  and  all 
the  green  lovers  in  New  England.  Her  mother,  however, 
who  commiserated  Tip,  and  believed  as  much  in  being 
civil  to  neighbors  as  she  did  in  keeping  the  Sabbath,  called 
again,  and  gave  her  no  peace  until  she  had  left  the  win- 
dow, the  moonrise,  and  her  romantic  dreams,  and  de- 
scended into  the  prosaic  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen,  and 
of  Tip  and  his  corn. 

How  lovely  she  looked,  to  Tip's  eyes  !  Her  plain,  neat 
calico  gown,  enfolding  a  wonderful  little  rounded  embodi- 
ment of  grace  and  beauty,  seemed  to  him  an  attire  fit 
for  any  queen  or  fairy  that  ever  lived.  But  it  was  the 
same  old  tragic  story  over  again,  —  although  Tip  loved 
Nancy,  Nancy  loved  not  Tip.  However  he  might  flatter 
himself,  her  regard  for  him  was  on  the  cool  side  of  sisterly, 
—  simply  the  toleration  of  a  kindly  heart  for  one  who  was 
not  to  blame  for  being  less  bright  than  other  people. 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  263 

She  took  her  sewing,  and  sat  by  the  table,  0,  so  beau- 
tiful !  Tip  thought,  and  enveloped  in  a  charmed  atmos- 
phere which  seemed  to  touch  and  transfigure  every  object 
except  himself.  The  humble  apartment,  the  splint-bot- 
tomed chairs,  the  stockings  drying  on  the  pole,  even  the 
widow's  cap  and  gown,  and  the  old  black  snuffers  on  the 
table,  —  all,  save  poor,  homely  Tip,  stole  a  ray  of  grace 
from  the  halo  of  her  loveliness. 

Nancy  discouraged  the  proposition  of  roasting  corn,  and 
otherwise  deeply  grieved  her  visitor  by  intently  working 
and  thinking,  instead  of  taking  part  in  the  conversation. 
At  length  a  bright  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"  Got  a  slate  and  pencil  1 " 

The  widow  furnished  the  required  articles.  He  then 
found  a  book,  and,  using  the  cover  as  a  rule,  marked  out 
the  plan  of  a  game. 

"Fox  and  geese,  Nancy;  ye  playl"  And  having 
picked  off  a  sufficient  number  of  kernels  from  one  of  the 
ears  of  corn,  and  placed  them  upon  the  slate  for  geese,  he 
selected  the  largest  he  could  find  for  a  fox,  stuck  it  upon  a 
pin,  and  proceeded  to  roast  it  in  the  candle. 

"  Which  '11  ye  have,  Nancy  ? "  —  pushing  the  slate 
toward  her ;  "  take  your  choice,  and  give  me  the  geese  ; 
then  beat  me  if  you  can  !     Come,  won't  ye  play  ? " 

"  0  dear.  Tip,  what  a  tease  you  are  !  "  said  Nancy.  "  I 
don't  want  to  play.  I  must  work.  Get  mother  to  plav 
with  you.  Tip." 

"  She  don't  wanter  !  "  exclaimed  Tip.  "  Come,  Nancy ; 
then  I  '11  tell  je  suthin'  I  heard  jest  'fore  I  come  away,  — 
fiuthin'  'bout  you  !  " 

And  Tip,  assuming  a  careless  air,  proceeded  to  pile  up 
the  ears  of  corn,  log-house  fashion,  upon  the  table,  while 
Nancy  was  finishing  her  seam. 

"  About  me  1 "  she  echoed. 


204:  NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

"You  'd  ha'  thought  so  !"  said  Tip,  slyly  glancing  over 
the  corn  as  he  spoke,  to  watch  the  effect  on  Nancy. 
"Cephe  and  the  old  man  had  the  all-firedest  row,  —  tell 
1/oic.r' 

He  hitched  around  in  his  chair,  and  resting  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  looked  up,  shrewd  and  grinning,  into  her 
face. 

"  William  Tansley,  what  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  As  if  you  could  n't  guess !  Cephe  was  comin'  to  see 
you  to-night ;  but  he  won't,"  chuckled  Tip.  "  Say !  ye 
ready  for  fox  and  geese  T' 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? "  demanded  Nancy. 

"  'Cause  I  heard !  The  old  man  stopped  him,  and 
Cephe  was  goin'  to  ride  over  him,  but  the  old  man  was 
too  much  for  him ;  he  jerked  him  off  the  hoss,  and  there 
they  had  it,  lickety-s witch,  rough-and-tumble,  till  Cephe 
give  in,  and  told  the  old  man,  inither  'n  have  any  words, 
he  'd  promise  never  to  come  and  see  you  agin  if  he  'd  give 
him  three  thousand  dollars ;  and  the  old  man  said  't  was  a 
bargain  ! " 

"Is  that  true.  Tip?"  cried  the  widow,  dropping  her 
work  and  raising  her  hands. 

"  True  as  I  live  and  breathe,  and  draw  the  breath  of  life, 
and  have  a  livin'  bein' ! "    Tip  solemnly  affirmed. 

"  Just  as  I  always  told  you,  Nancy  ! "  exclaimed  the 
widow.  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  I  felt  sartin  Cephas 
could  n't  be  depended  upon.  His  father  never  'd  hear  a 
word  to  it,  I  always  said.  Now  don't  feel  bad,  Nancy ; 
don't  mind  it.  It  '11  be  all  for  the  best,  I  hope.  Now 
don't,  Nancy;  don't,  I  beg  and  beseech." 

She  saw  plainly  by  the  con^^ilsive  movement  of  the 
girl's  bosom  and  the  quivering  of  her  lip  that  some  pas- 
sionate demonstration  was  threatened.  Tip  meanwhile 
had  advanced  his  chair  still  nearer,  contorting  his  neck 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  265 

and  looking  np  with  leering  malice  into  her  face  until  his 
nose  almost  touched  her  cheek. 

"  What  do  ye  think  now  of  Cephe  Boxton  1 "  he  asked, 
tauntingly;  "hey]" 

A  stinging  blow  upon  the  ear  rewarded  his  imperti- 
nence, and  he  recoiled  so  suddenly  that  his  chair  went 
over  and  threw  him  sprawling  upon  the  floor. 

"  Gosh  all  hemlock ! "  he  muttered,  scrambling  to  his 
feet,  rubbing  first  his  elbow,  then  his  ear.  "  What 's  that 
fur,  I  'd  like  to  know,  —  knockin'  a  feller  down  1 " 

"What  do  I  think  of  Cephas  Boxton ]"  cried  Nancy. 
"  I  think  the  same  I  did  before,  —  why  should  n't  1 1 
Your  slander  is  no  slander.  Now  sit  down  and  behave 
yourself,  and  don't  put  your  face  too  near  mine,  if  you 
don't  want  your  ears  boxed  !  " 

"  Why,  Nancy,  how  could  you '? "  groaned  the  widow. 

Nancy  made  no  reply,  but  resumed  her  work  very  much 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  Hurt  you  much,  William  1 " 

"  Not  much ;  only  it  made  my  elbow  sing  like  all 
Jerewsalem !  Never  mind ;  she  '11  find  out !  Where 's  my 
hatr' 

"  You  a'n't  going,  be  ye  1 "  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  with  an  air 
of  solicitude. 

"  I  guess  I  a'n't  wanted  here,"  mumbled  Tip,  pulling  his 
hat  over  his  ears.  He  struck  the  slate,  scattering  the  fox 
and  geese,  and  demolished  the  house  of  green  corn.  "  You 
can  keep  that ;  I  don't  want  it.     Good  night.  Miss  Blynn." 

Tip  placed  peculiar  emphasis  upon  the  name,  and  fum- 
bled a  good  while  with  the  latch,  expecting  Nancy  would 
say  something;  but  she  maintained  a  cool  and  dignified 
silence,  and  as  nobody  urged  him  to  stay,  he  reluctantly 
departed,  his  heart  fuU  of  injury,  and  his  hopes  collapsed 
like  his  pockets. 
12 


266  NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

For  some  minutes  Nancy  continued  to  sew  intently  and 
fast,  her  flushed  face  bowed  over  the  seam ;  then  suddenly 
her  eyes  blurred,  her  fingers  forgot  their  cunning,  the 
needle  shot  blindly  hither  and  thither,  and  the  quickly 
drawn  thread  snapped  in  twain. 

"  Nancy  !  Nancy  !  don't !  "  pleaded  Mrs.  Blynn ;  "  I 
beg  of  ye,  now  don't !  " 

"  0  mother,"  burst  forth  the  young  girl,  with  sobs,  "  I 
am  so  unhappy  !  What  did  I  strike  poor  Tip  for  1  He 
did  not  know  any  better.  I  am  always  doing  something 
so  wrong !  He  could  not  have  made  up  the  story. 
Cephas  would  have  come  here  to-night,  —  I  know  he 
would  ! " 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child  ! "  said  Mrs.  Blynn.  "  Why 
could  n't  you  hear  to  me  ^  I  always  told  you  to  be  careful 
and  not  like  Cephas  too  well.  But  maybe  Tip  did  n't 
understand.  Maybe  Cephas  will  come  to-morrow,  and 
then  all  will  be  explained." 

"  Cephas  is  true,  I  know,  I  know  !  "  wejDt  Nancy,  "  but 
his  father  —  " 

The  morrow  came  and  passed,  and  no  Cephas.  The 
next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Nancy  went  to  church,  not 
with  an  undivided  heart,  but  with  human  love  and  hope 
and  grief  mingling  strangely  with  her  praj^ers.  She  knew 
Cephas  would  be  there,  and  felt  that  a  glance  of  his  eye 
would  tell  her  all.  But  —  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months  it  happened  —  they  sat  in  the  same  house  of  wor- 
ship, she  with  her  mother  in  their  humble  corner,  he  in 
the  Judge's  conspicuous  pew,  and  no  word  or  look  passed 
between  them.  She  went  home,  still  to  wait.  Day  after 
day  of  leaden  loneliness,  night  after  night  of  watching  and 
despair,  and  still  no  Cephas.  Tip  also  had  discontinued 
his  visits.  Mrs.  Blynn  saw  a  slow,  certain  change  come 
over  her  child ;   her  joyous  laugh  rang  no  more,  neither 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  267 

were  her  tears  often  seen  or  her  sighs  heard;  but  she 
seemed  disciphning  herself  to  bear  with  patience  and 
serenity  the  desolateness  of  her  lot. 

One  evening  it  was  stormy,  and  Nancy  and  her  mother 
were  together  in  the  plain,  tidy  kitchen,  both  sewing  and 
both  silent ;  gusts  and  rain  lashing  the  windows,  and  the 
cat  purring  in  a  chair.  Nancy's  heart  was  more  quiet 
than  usual;  for,  although  expectation  was  not  quite 
extinct,  no  visitor  surely  could  be  looked  for  on  such  a 
night.  Suddenly,  however,  amidst  the  sounds  of  the 
storm,  she  heard  footsteps  and  a  knock  at  the  door.  Yet 
she  need  not  have  started  and  changed  color  so  tumultu- 
ously,  for  the  visitor  was  only  Tip. 

"  Good  evenin',"  said  young  Master  Tansley,  stamping, 
pulling  off  his  dripping  hat,  and  shaking  it.  "  I  'd  no  idee 
it  rained  so !  I  was  goin'  by,  and  thought  I  'd  stop  in. 
Ye  mad,  Nancy  1 "  And  he  peered  at  the  young  girl  from 
beneath  his  wet  hair  with  a  bashful  grin. 

Nancy's  heart  was  too  much  softened  to  cherish  any 
resentment,  and  with  suffused  eyes  she  begged  Tip  to 
forgive  the  .blow. 

"  Wal !  I  do'no'  what  I  'd  done  to  be  knocked  down 
fur,"  began  Tip,  with  a  pouting  and  aggrieved  air; 
"  though  I  s'pose  I  dew,  tew.  But  I  guess  what  I  told  ye 
turned  out  about  so,  after  all ;  did  n't  it,  hey  1 " 

At  Nancy's  look  of  distress,  Mrs.  Blynn  made  signs  for 
Tip  to  forbear.  But  he  had  come  too  far  through  the 
darkness  and  rain  with  an  exciting  piece  of  news  to  be 
thus  easily  silenced. 

"  I  ha'n't  brought  ye  no  corn  this  time,  for  I  did  n't 
know  as  you  'd  roast  it  if  I  did.  Say,  Nancy  !  Cephe  and 
the  old  man  had  it  agin  to-day ;  and  the  Judge  forked 
over  the  three  thousand  dollars ;  I  seen  him  !  He  was 
only  waitin'  to  raise  it.     It 's  real  mean  in  Cephe,  I  s'pose 


268  NANCY  BLYNNS  LOVERS. 

you  think.  Mebby  't  is ;  but,  by  gracious  !  three  thou- 
sand dollars  is  a  'tarnal  slue  of  money  ! " 

Hugely  satisfied  with  the  effect  this  announcement  pro- 
duced, Tip  sprawled  upon  a  chair  and  chewed  a  stick,  like 
one  resolved  to  make  himself  comfortable  for  the  evening. 

*'  Saxafrax,  —  ye  want  some  1 "  he  said,  breaking  oif  with 
his  teeth  a  liberal  piece  of  the  stick.  "Say,  Nancy!  ye 
need  n't  look  so  mad.  Cephe  has  sold  out,  I  tell  ye ;  and 
when  I  offer  ye  saxafrax,  ye  may  as  well  take  some." 

Not  without  effort  Nancy  held  her  peace;  and  Tip, 
extending  the  fragment  of  the  sassafras-root  which  his 
teeth  had  split  off,  was  complacently  urging  her  to  accept 
it,  —  "  'T  was  real  good,"  —  when  the  sound  of  hoofs  was 
heard ;  a  halt  at  the  gate ;  a  horseman  dismounting,  lead- 
ing his  animal  to  the  shed ;  a  voice  saying  "  Be  still, 
Pericles ! "  and  footsteps  approaching  the  door. 

"Nancy!  Nancy!"  articulated  Mrs.  Blynn,  scarcely 
less  agitated  than  her  daughter,  "  he  has  come  ! " 

"  It 's  Cephe  !  "  whispered  Tip,  hoarsely.  "  If  he  should 
ketch  me  here !  I  —  I  guess  I  '11  go  !  Confound  that 
Cephe,  anyhow ! " 

Rap,  rap  !  two  light,  decisive  strokes  of  a  riding-whip 
on  the  kitchen  door. 

Mrs.  Blynn  glanced  around  to  see  if  everything  was  tidy  ; 
and  Tip,  dropping  his  sassafras,  whirled  about  and  wheeled 
about  like  Jim  Crow  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

"  Mother,  go  !  "  uttered  Nancy,  pale  with  emotion,  hur- 
riedly pointing  to  the  door. 

She  made  her  escape  by  the  stairway ;  observing  which, 
the  bewildered  Tip,  who  had  indulged  a  frantic  thought  of 
leaping  from  the  window  to  avoid  meeting  his  dread  rival, 
changed  his  mind  and  rushed  after  her.  Unadvised  of  his 
intention,  and  thinking  only  of  shutting  herself  from  the 
sight   of  young   Boxton,  Nancy  closed  the  kitchen    door 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  269 

rather  severely  upon  Tip's  fingers ;  but  his  fear  rendered 
him  insensible  to  pain,  and  he  followed  her,  scrambling  up 
the  dark  staircase  just  as  Mrs.  Bljnn  admitted  Cephas. 

Nancy  did  not  immediately  perceive  what  had  occuiTed ; 
but  presently,  amidst  the  sounds  of  the  rain  on  the  roof 
and  of  the  wind  about  the  gables,  she  heard  the  unmis- 
takable perturbed  breathing  of  her  luckless  lover. 

"  Nancy,"  whispered  Tip,  "  whe^-e  be  ye  1  I  've  most 
broke  my  head  agin  this  blasted  beam ! " 

"What  are  you  here  fori"  demanded  Nancy. 

"  'Cause  I  did  n't  want  him  to  see  me.  He  won't  stop 
but  a  minute ;  then  I  '11  go  down.  I  did  give  my  head 
the  all-firedest  tunk ! "  said  Tip. 

Mrs.  Blynn  opened  the  door  to  inform  Nancy  of  the  an-i- 
val  of  her  visitor,  and  the  light  from  below,  partially  illumi- 
nating the  fugitive's  retreat,  showed  Tip  in  a  sitting  posture 
on  one  of  the  upper  stairs,  diligently  rubbing  that  portion 
of  his  cranium  which  had  come  in  collision  with  the  beam. 

"  Say,  Nancy,  don't  go  !  "  whispered  Tip ;  "  don't  leave 
me  here  in  the  dark  !  " 

Nancy  had  too  many  tumultuous  thoughts  of  her  own 
to  give  much  heed  to  his  distress;  and  having  hastily 
arranged  her  hair  and  dress  by  the  sense  of  touch,  she 
glided  by  him,  bidding  him  keep  quiet,  and  descended  the 
stairs  to  the  door,  which  she  closed  after  her,  leaving  him 
to  the  wretched  solitude  of  the  place,  which  appeared  to 
him  a  hundred  fold  more  dark  and  dreadful  than  before. 

Cephas  in  the  mean  time  had  divested  himself  of  his  oil- 
cloth capote,  and  entered  the  neat  little  sitting-room,  to 
•which  he  was  civilly  shown  by  the  wndow.  "  Nancy  '11 
be  down  in  a  minute."  And  placing  a  candle  upon  the 
mantel-piece,   Mrs.  Blynn  withdrew. 

Nancy,  having  regained  her  self-possession,  appeared 
mighty   dig-nified  before  her  lover ;   gave  him    a  passive 


270  NANCY   BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

hand ;  declined,  with  averted  head,  his  proffered  kiss  j  and 
seated  herself  at  a  cool  and  respectable  distance, 

"  Nancy,  what  is  the  matter  1 "  said  Cephas,  in  min- 
gled amazement  and  alarm.  "  You  act  as  though  I  was  a 
pedler,  and  you  did  n't  care  to  trade." 

"  You  can  trade,  sir ;  you  can  make  what  bargains  you 
please  with  others  ;  but  —  "  Nancy's  aching  and  swelling 
heart  came  up  and  choked  her. 

"  Nancy  !  what  have  I  done  1  What  has  changed  you 
so  1     Have  you  forgotten  —  the  last'  time  I  was  here  1 " 

"  'T  would  not  be  strange  if  I  had,  it  was  so  long  ago  !  " 

Poor  Nancy  spoke  cuttingly ;  but  her  sarcasm  was  as  a 
sword  with  two  points,  which  pierced  her  own  heart  quite 
as  much  as  it  wounded  her  lover's. 

"Nancy,"  said  Cephas,  and  he  took  her  hand  again  so 
tenderly  that  it  was  like  putting  heaven  away  to  withdraw 
it,  "  could  n't  you  trust  me  1  Has  n't  your  heart  assured 
you  that  I  could  never  stay  away  from  you  so  without 
good  reasons'?" 

"  0,  I  don't  doubt  but  you  had  reasons ! "  replied 
Nancy,  with  a  bursting  anguish  in  her  tones.  "  But  such 
reasons ! " 

"  Such  reasons  1 "  repeated  Cephas,  grieved  and  repelled. 
"  Will  you  please  inform  me  what  you  mean  1  For,  as  I 
live,  I  am  ignorant !  " 

"Ah,  Cephas!  it  is  not  true,  then,"  cried  Nancy,  with 
sudden  hope,  "that  —  your  father  —  " 

"  What  of  my  father  T'    ■ 

"  That  he  has  offered  you  money  —  " 

A  vivid  emotion  flashed  across  the  young  man's  face. 

"I  would  have  preferred  to  tell  you  without  being 
questioned  so  sharply,"  he  replied.  "But  since  hearsay 
has  got  the  start  of  me,  and  brought  you  the  news,  I  can 
only  answer  —  he  has  offered  me  money." 


ii~- ^-^-^^^      ,^:~[  '  '\  •'      ) 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS/  271 

"To  buy  you  —  to  hire  you  —  " 

"Not   to  marry  any  poor   girl, — that's   the  bargain, 
Nancy,"  said  Cephas,  with  the  tenderest  of  smiles. 
"And  you  have  accepted  1"  cried  Nancy,  quickly. 
"  I  have  accepted,"  responded  Cephas, 
Nancy  uttered  not  a  word. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  all  this ;  but  I  should  have  told 
you  in  a  different  way,  could  I  have  had  my  choice,"  said 
Cephas.  "What  I  have  done  is  for  your  happiness  as 
much  as  my  own.  My  father  threatened  to  disinherit  me 
if  I  married  a  poor  girl ;  and  how  could  I  bear  the  thought 
of  subjecting  you  to  such  a  loti  He  has  given  me  three 
thousand  dollars;  I  only  received  it  to-day,  or  I  should 
have  come  to  you  before,  for,  Nancy,  —  do  not  look  so 
strange  !  —  it  is  for  you,  this  money,  —  do  you  hear  % " 

He  attempted  to  draw  her  toward  him,  but  she  sprang 
indignantly  to  her  feet. 

"  Cephas  !     You  offer  me  money  ! " 

"  Nancy  ! "  —  Cephas  caught  her  and  folded  her  in  his 
arms,  —  "  don't  you  understand  1  It  is  your  dowry  !  You 
are  no  longer  a  poor  girl.  I  promised  not  to  marry  any 
poor  girl,  but  I  never  promised  not  to  marry  you.  Accept 
the  dowry ;  then  you  will  be  a  rich  girl,  and  —  my  wife, 
my  wife,  Nancy  \ " 

"  0  Cephas  !  is  it  true '?  Let  me  look  at  you  ! "  She 
held  him  firm,  and  looked  into  his  face,  and  into  his  deep 
tender  eyes.     "  It  is  true  !  " 

What  more  was  said  or  done  I  am  unable  to  relate ;  for 
about  this  time  there  came  from  another  part  of  the  house 
a  dull,  reverberating  sound,  succeeded  by  a  rapid  series  of 
concussions,  as  of  some  ponderous  body  descending  in  a 
swift  but  irregular  manner  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  Master  William  Tansley,  who,  groping 
about  in  the  dark  with  intent  to  find  a  stove-pipe  hole  at 


272  NANCY   BLYNN'S   LOVERS. 

which  to  listen,  had  lost  his  latitude  and  his  equilibrium, 
and  tumbled  from  landing  to  landing,  in  obedience  to  the 
dangerous  laws  of  gravitation.  Mrs.  Blynn  flew  to  open 
the  door ;  found  him  helplessly  kicking  on  his  back,  with 
his  head  in  the  rag-bag;  drew  him  forth  by  one  arm; 
ascertained  that  he  had  met  with  no  injuries  which  a  little 
salve  would  not  heal ;  patched  him  up  almost  as  good  as 
new ;  gave  him  her  sympathy  and  a  lantern  to  go  home 
with,  and  kindly  bade  him  good  night. 

So  ended  Tip  Tansley's  unfortunate  love-afiair ;  and  I 
am  pleased  to  relate  that  his  broken  heart  recovered  from 
its  hurts  almost  as  speedily  as  his  broken  head. 

A  month  later  the  village  clergyman  was  called  to 
administer  the  vows  of  wedlock  to  a  pair  of  happy  lovers 
in  the  Widow  Blynn's  cottage  ;  and  the  next  morning  there 
went  abroad  the  report  of  a  marriage  which  surprised  the 
good  people  of  the  parish  generally,  and  Judge  Boxton 
more  particularly. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Cephas  rode  home  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  ask  him  if  he  would 
like  an  introduction  to  the  bride. 

"  Cephas  ! "  cried  the  Judge,  filled  with  wrath,  smiting 
his  son's  WTitten  agreement  with  his  angry  hand,  "look 
here  !  your  promise  !     Have  you  forgotten  1 " 

"  Read  it,  please,"  said  Cephas. 

"  In  consideration,"  began  the  Judge,  running  his  trou- 
bled eye  over  the  paper,  " .  .  .  .  I  do  hereby  pledge  my- 
self, never,  at  aiiy  time,  or  in  a7ii/  place,  to  marry  ani/ 
poor  girl." 

"You  will  find,"  said  Cephas,  "that  I  have  acted 
according  to  the  strict  terms  of  our  agreement.  And  I 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  I  have  married  a 
person  who,  with  other  attractions,  possesses  the  hand- 
some trifle  of  three  thousand  dollars." 


NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVEES.  273 

The  Judge  fumed,  made  use  of  an  oath  or  two,  and 
talked  loudly  of  disinheritance  and  cutting  off  with  a 
shilling. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  have  you  do  such :  a  thing," 
rejoined  Cephas,  respectfully;  "but,  after  all,  it  isn't  as 
though  I  had  not  received  a  neat  little  fortune  by  the  way 
of  my  wife." 

A  retort  so  happy  that  the  Judge  ended  with  a  hearty 
acknowledgment  of  his  son's  superior  wit,  and  an  invi- 
tation to  come  home  and  lodge  his  lovely  encumbrance 
beneath  the  parental  roof 

Thereupon  Cephas  took  a  roll  of  notes  from  his  pocket. 
"All  jesting  aside,''  said  he,  "I  must  first  square  a  little 
matter  of  business  with  which  my  wife  has  commissioned 
me.  She  is  more  scrupulous  than  the  son  of  my  father, 
and  she  refused  to  receive  the  money  until  I  had  promised 
to  return  it  to  you  as  soon  as  we  should  be  married.  And 
here  it  is  !  " 

"  Fie,  fie  ! "  cried  the  Judge.  "  Keep  the  money. 
She  's  a  noble  girl,  after  all,  —  too  good  for  a  rogue  like 
you!" 

"  I  know  it ! "  said  Cephas,  humbly,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes ;  for  recollections  of  a  somewhat  wild  and  wayward 
youth,  mingling  with  the  conscious  possession  of  so  much 
love  and  happiness,  melted  his  heart  with  unspeakable 
contrition  and  gratitude. 


12* 


IMK.    BLAZAT'S   EXPEErE]:J^"CE. 


THE    LADY    IN    BLACK. 

I  HAD  walked  through  the  train,  carpet-bag  in  hand, 
without  finding  an  ehgible  seat.  So  I  walked  back 
again,  looking  very  hard  at  all  the  non-paying  bandboxes, 
bundles,  and  babies  that  monopolized  the  cushions  and 
kept  gentlemen  standing  with  tickets  in  their  hatbands. 
Not  a  child  was  moved,  however,  by  my  silent  appeal  for 
justice.  Not  a  bandbox  flinched  before  my  stern,  reprov- 
ing gaze.  Only  one  proprietress  of  such  encumbrances 
deigned  to  take  the  least  notice  of  me. 

"  There  is  a  seat,  sir  !  "  she  said,  in  a  tone  extremely 
mortifying  to  my  self-respect,  while  her  overfed  carpet-bag 
appeared  choking  with  merriment  at  my  expense. 

A  lady  in  black  filled  the  designated  seat  with  wide- 
spread mourning  apparel  and  an  atmosphere  of  gloom. 
Everybody  seemed  by  a  natural  instinct  to  avoid  intruding 
upon  her  melancholy  privacy.  The  place  seemed  sacred 
to  sorrow.  But  as  she  of  the  babies  and  bundles  spoke, 
she  of  the  voluminous  ebon  skirts  gathered  up  their  folds, 
with  a  mournfully  civil  gesture  inviting  me  to  sit  down. 
I  sat  down  accordingly,  awed  and  chilled  by  the  funereal 
presence.  Her  bonnet  was  of  black  crape,  a  black  veil 
eclipsed  her  face,  and  she  wore  a  mourning-ring  over  the 
finger  of  a  black  glove. 


MR.    BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  275 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  open  this  window,  sir  1 " 
she  said  to  me,  in  a  voice  which  also  appeared  clad  in 
mourning,  —  so  sombre,  so  soft,  so  suggestive  of  lost 
friends. 

I  opened  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  and,  putting  aside  the  woven 
midnight  of  her  veil,  revealed  the  most  perfect  mourning 
countenance  I  ever  beheld,  —  black  hair,  black  eyes,  and 
long,  black  eyelashes.  It  was  a  youthful  face,  however, 
and  rather  plump  and  smooth,  I  thought,  for  such  stun- 
ning woe. 

"  Will  you  have  the  shade  raised,  madam  1 " 

"  0  no,  thank  you."  And  out  of  the  cloud  of  her  coun- 
tenance shone  a  smile,  a  very  misty,  tender,  pensive  smile. 

I  remarked,  witn  appropriate  solemnity,  that  the  weather 
was  fine. 

"0  yes  !  "  she  sighed,  "it  is  too  beautiful  for  one  that 
a'n't  happy." 

The  lady  in  black  soon  grew  communicative,  and  told 
me  her  story.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  physician  in  one 
of  the  Western  States,  who,  besides  his  regular  practice, 
had  purchased  lands  which  had  increased  in  value,  and, 
dying  suddenly,  had  left  her  a  widow  with  twenty  thousand 
dollars.  She  was  going,  she  added,  to  visit  her  uncle,  in 
Shoemake. 

"  In  Shoemake  ! "  I  repeated,  with  a  start  of  interest. 
For  I  must  mention  here  that  I  was  going  to  Shoemake. 
My  errand  was  to  woo,  and  of  course  win,  Miss  Susie 
Thornton  of  that  place,  solely  on  the  recommendation  of 
my  friend  Jones,  whose  praises  of  his  country  cousin,  whom 
I  had  never  seen,  had  induced  me  to  venture  upon  the 
rather  unusual  procedure. 

"  Is  Shoemake  a  pleasant  place  1"  I  inquired. 

"  0   yes ! "   with    another    sigh,   and   another   of  those 


276  MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

smiles,  so  very  attractive  that  they  would  have  charmed 
even  me,  had  I  not  considered  myself  already  engaged. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Thornton  family  1 "  I  asked,  carelessly. 

"  What  I  "  said  she,  "  do  ^ou  know  the  Thorntons  1 " 

"  Not  at  all ;  only  a  relation  of  theirs  has  intrusted  me 
with  a  package  for  them." 

"  Susie  Thornton  is  a  very  pretty  girl." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  I,  gratified  to  hear  my  wife  commended. 

"  At  least,  she  was  five  years  ago.  But  five  years  make 
such  dreadful  changes  !  " 

"  How  far  are  the  Thorntons  from  the  village  1 " 

"  0,  not  far  !  A  nice  little  farm  down  the  river.  A 
charming  situation." 


11. 

MR.    THORNTON. 

That  afternoon,  having  dressed,  dined,  and  finished  my 
cigar,  I  sallied  forth  from  the  "  Shoemake  Hotel "  to  call 
on  my  future  bride. 

I  found  the  cottage ;  a  neat  little  cream-colored  house 
on  a  bank  of  the  river ;  doors  and  windows  festooned  with 
prairie  roses  ;  an  orchard  behind,  and  maple-trees  in  front ; 
and  an  atmosphere  of  rural  beauty  and  quietude  over  all. 

I  opened  the  little  wooden  gate.  It  clicked  cheerily  be- 
hind me,  and  the  sound  summoned  from  the  orchard  a 
laboring  man  in  rolled-up  shirt-sleeves,  who  approached 
as  I  was  lifting  the  brass  knocker  under  the  festoons 
of  roses. 

"How  de  do,  sir?  Want  anything  o'  Mr.  Thornton's 
folks  ] " 

I  looked  at  him.     He   might   have  been    a  porter  (at 


MK.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  277 

least,  lie  was  a  hroivn  stout  fellow)  ;  not  above  five  feet 
five,  and  rather  familiar  for  such  a  short  acquaintance. 

''  I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Thornton,"  I  said,  talking 
down  at  him  from  my  six-foot  dignity  on  the  doorstep. 

"  0,  wal !  walk  right  in  !  We  're  all  in  the  orchard  jest 
now,  gitting  a  hive  of  bees." 

"Be  so  kind  then,  my  good  fellow,"  said  I,  producing 
Jones's  letter,  "as  to  hand  this  to  Mr.  Thornton." 

He  received  the  letter  in  his  great,  brown,  horny  hands, 
stared  at  the  superscription,  stared  at  me,  said,  "  Oh ! 
Jones!"  and  opened  it.  "I  am  Mr.  Thornton,"  he  in- 
formed me,  before  beginning  to  read. 

When  the  letter  was  read  he  looked  up  again,  smilingly. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Blazay,  then  ! "  he  said. 

*'  Delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Thornton,"  /  said. 

He  reached  up,  I  reached  down.  He  got  hold  of  my 
hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  bell-rope,  and  wrung  it  cordially. 
I  knew  he  was  glad  to  see  me,  as  well  as  if  he  had  told  me. 

"  Will  you  step  into  the  house  or  into  the  orchard  *? " 
said  Mr.  Thornton. 

House  or  orchard,  I  felt  my  foot  was  in  it,  and  it  made 
little  difference  which  way  I  stepped. 

"  Wal,"  said  he,  as  he  was  taking  me  to  see  the  bees ; 
"  so  you  've  come  up  here,  thinking  mabby  you  'd  like  to 
marry  our  Susie  %  " 

I  stopped  aghast. 

"I  —  I  was  n't  aware,  sir,  that  Jones  had  written  any- 
thing to  that  effect ! " 

"  A  private  letter  I  got  from  him  yis'd'y,"  said  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton ;  "  he  seemed  to  think  's  best  to  kinder  explain  things 
'fore  you  got  along.  I  think  about  so  myself.  He  gives 
you  a  tolerable  fair  character,  and,  fur  's  I  'm  concerned, 
if  you  and  Susie  can  make  a  bargain,  I  sha'  n't  raise  no 
objections." 


278  MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

'*  Have  jou,"  I  gasped,  "  mentioned  it  to  Susie  1  " 

*'  0,  sartin  ! "  said  Mr.  Thornton.  "  Mother  and  I 
thought  best  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  her,  so  's  to 
have  everything  open  and  aboveboard,  and  save  misunder- 
standings in  the  futur'." 

"And,  may  I  ask,  how  did  Susie  regard  a  —  such  a  — 
vei-y  singular  arrangement  1" 

*' Singular?  How  sol  Mother  and  I  looked  upon  it  as 
very  sensible.  You  come  and  git  acquainted  and  marry 
her,  if  agreeable ;  or  if  not,  not.  That  's  what  I  call 
straightforVd." 

**  Straightfor'a'd  1  0  yes,  to  be  sure  ! '  I  said,  and  es- 
sayed to  laugh,  with  very  indifferent,  if  not  with  quite 
gliastly,  success. 

A  little  too  straightforward,  wasn't  if?  It  w^as  well 
enough,  of  course,  for  a  couple  of  hardened  wretches  like 
Jones  and  myself  to  talk  over  a  matrimonial  project  in 
business  fashion,  and  for  me  to  come  up  and  look  at  the 
article  of  a  bride  he  recommended,  to  see  if  she  suited  ; 
but  to  know  that  the  affair  had  been  coolly  discussed  by 
the  other  party  to  the  proposed  bargain  made  it  as  awk- 
ward and  unromantic  as  possible.  I  even  suspected  that 
I  was  the  victim  of  a  hoax,  and  that  Jones  was  at  that 
moment  chuckling  over  my  stupendous  gullibility. 


III. 

SUSIE   AND    THE   BEES. 

*'  That  there  's  my  darter,  and  them  's  the  bees,"  tiuid 
Mr.  Thornton. 

"  AThat !  that  thing  in  the  tree  ? "  said  I,  using  n)y  eye- 
glass.    "  It  looks  like  a  shocking  bad  liat ! 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  279 

"  That  's  the  swarm  stuck  on  to  the  limb,"  said  Mr. 
Thornton.  "  We  '11  have  Susie  to  thank  if  we  save  'em. 
She  heard  'em  flying  over,  and  run  out  with  the  dinner-bell 
and  called  'em." 

"  Called  'em  to  dinner  1  "  I  said,  absent-mindedly. 

"  Ringing  the  bell  called  'em  down,  till  bimeby  they  lit 
on  that  tree.  A  swarm  '11  gen'ly  come  to  such  noises. 
And  Susie  's  a  master-hand  to  look  arter  bees." 

"  What  's  she  doing  up  on  the  ladder  there  1 " 

"  She  's  cutting  off  the  limb.  It  's  curi's,"  said  Mr. 
Thornton,  with  fatherly  pride,  "bees  never  tech  her, 
though  she  goes  right  in  among  'em.  Sting  me,  though ; 
so  I  keep  a  little  back.     Susie's  mother,  Mr.  Blazay  ! " 

At  that  a  freckled,  good-natured  woman,  who  stood  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  tree,  with  her  arms  rolled  up  in  a 
calico  apron,  took  them  out  to  shake  hands  with  me,  and 
rolled  them  up  again. 

"  What  are  these  little  negro  boys  doing?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Nigger  boys  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  laughed  the  paternal 
Thornton. 

"  Them  's  ozir  little  boys,  sir,"  said  the  maternal  Thorn- 
ton, with  an  amused  smile.  "  What  you  see  is  veils  tied 
over  their  faces  to  keep  the  bees  from  stinging  on  'em. 
That  's  George  Washington  holding  the  ladder  for  Susie  ; 
and  that  's  Andrew  Jackson  tending  the  clo'es-line." 

"  This  is  the  second  swarm  Susie  has  stopped  this 
season,"  said  Mr.  Thornton.  "  Both  wild  swarms  fi*om 
the  woods,  prob'bly.     We  consider  it  quite  a  prize." 

"  Hive  of  bees  in  May,  wuth  a  ton  of  hay ;  hive  of  bees 
m  Jime,  wuth  a  silver  spoon ;  hive  of  bees  in  July,  not 
wuth  a  fly.  That  's  the  old  adage,"  smiled  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton. 

"  But  Susie  has  good  luck  with  her  bees,  let  'em  swarm 
when  they  will,"  said  Mr.  Thornton. 


280  MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

"  Look  out  down  there  !  "  cried  a  clear,  shrill,  feminine 
voice  from  the  tree. 

The  fibres  of  the  bough  began  to  crack ;  and  somewhat 
to  my  alarm  I  saw  the  great,  black,  hat-like  mass  swing 
down,  as  if  about  to  fall  to  the  gi'ound.  But  I  soon  per- 
ceived that  it  was  secured  by  the  rope,  which  was  passed 
over  a  limb  above,  and  then  down  to  Andrew  Jackson's 
hand,  who  stood  looking  up  through  his  veil,  waiting  for 
orders.  Susie  severed  the  bark  and  splinters  that  still 
held  the  branch,  then  dropped  her  little  handsaw  on  the 


"  Now,  Jackson  ! "  Slowly  the  boy  payed  out  the  line, 
and  slowly  the  bough  descended  with  its  burden.  "  Hold 
on,  Georgie  ! "  Georgie  held  on,  and  down  the  ladder  came 
Susie. 

Animated,  agile,  red  as  a  rose,  she  ran  to  her  bees,  I 
regarding  her  meanwhile  with  anxious  interest.  Tak- 
ing hold  of  the  bough  where  it  hung,  she  ordered  An- 
drew Jackson  to  "  let  it  come,"  lowered  it  almost  to  the 
ground  and  shook  it.  The  bees  fell  off  in  great  bunches 
and  clusters,  which  burst  into  buzzing,  crumbling, 
crawling  multitudes  on  the  grass,  —  wave  on  wave  dark 
surging.  George  Washington  stood  ready  with  a  bee-hive, 
which  he  clapped  over  the  living  heap.  And  the  job  was 
done. 

"  There,  father !  "  cried  Susie,  merrilj^  '^  what  are  you 
going  to  give  me  for  that  ]     Hive  of  bees  in  June  —  " 

She  stopped,  seeing  me. 

"  You  shall  have  your  silver  spoon,"  said  Mr.  Thornton. 
"  This  is  Mr.  Blazay,  Susie." 

Determined  to  perform  my  part  with  becoming  gallantly, 
I  advanced.  Unluckily,  I  am  tall.  My  bow  was  lofty  ; 
the  bough  of  the  tree  was  low.  Before  I  could  take  off 
my  hat  it  was  taken  off  for  me.     Attempting  to  catch  it. 


MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  281 

I  knocked  it  like  a  ball  straight  at  Susie's  head.  She 
dodged  it,  and  it  fell  by  the  bee-hive.  At  that  the  Father 
of  his  Country  rushed  to  the  rescue,  and  brought  it  back 
to  rae  with  the  air  of  a  youngster  who  expects  a  penny  for 
his  services. 

I  was  finishing  my  bow  to  Susie,  when  I  observed  a 
number  of  swift,  zigzag,  darting  insects  circling  about  us. 

"Stand  still  and  they  won't  hurt  ye,"  said  George  Wash- 
ington, handing  me  my  hat.  "  Make  'em  think  you  're  a 
tree  ! " 

I  assumed  the  role  accordingly,  —  rooted  myself  to  the 
spot,  —  held  my  tall  trunk  erect,  —  kept  my  limbs  rigid,  — 
and,  I  am  confident,  appeared  verdant  enough  to  deceive  even 
a  bee.  In  that  interesting  attitude  I  looked  as  uncon- 
cerned as  possible,  grimaced  at  Susie,  said  what  a  delight- 
ful orchard  it  was,  and  felt  a  w^hizzing,  winnowing  sensa- 
tion in  my  foliage,  otherwise  called  hair. 

^'  There 's  a  bee  !  "  screamed  Andrew  Jackson. 

The  General  was  right,  —  there  was  a  bee.  I  began  to 
brush. 

"  Don't  ye  stir  !  "  shouted  Washington.  "  That  '11  only 
make  him  mad  !     Keep  jest  as  still !  " 

It  was  easy  for  the  First  President  to  stand  there,  with 
his  face  veiled,  and  promulgate  that  theory.  But  I  was  n't 
up  to  it.  I  found  myself  stirring  my  stumps  involuntarily. 
I  dropped  my  hat  and  stepped  in  it.  The  bee  whizzed 
and  winnowed ;  I  flirted  and  brushed.  Then  came  a 
poignant  thrill !  The  assassin  had  his  poisoned  dagger 
in  me. 

The  sublime  Washington  continued  to  shout,  "  Keep 
still,  keep  jest  as  still !  "  But  already  my  movements  had 
quite  dispelled  the  illusion  that  I  was  a  tree,  and  the  dart- 
ing and  dinning  about  my  ears  became  terrific.  I  endeav- 
ored to  smile  calmly  at  Susie,  and  talk  as  became  a  man 


282  MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

of  my  politeness  and  dignity.  But  it  was  no  use.  Panic 
seized  me.  I  stamped,  I  swung  my  crushed  hat,  I  took  to 
my  heels.  I  ran  like  a  Mohawk ;  and  I  should  never, 
probably,  have  stopped  running  until  I  reached  a  railroad 
train,  had  not  the  same  destiny  that  brought  me  to  Shoe- 
make  conspired  to  keep  me  there  by  casting  a  dead  branch 
in  my  way.  In  giving  my  head  a  brush  I  neglected  the 
brush  at  my  feet.  They  became  entangled  in  it,  and  I 
sprawled  my  six  feet  of  manly  dignity  ingloriously  on  the 
turf. 


IV. 

HOW    I    WAS    ENTERTAINED. 

The  first  thing  I  heard,  on  recovering  my  faculties  and 
sitting  up,  was  laughter.  George  Washing-ton  and  Andrew 
Jackson  were  rolling  and  keeling  over  with  laughter.  Mrs. 
Thornton  was  eating  her  calico  apron.  Mr.  Thornton 
was  suffering  from  an  excruciating  attack  of  -colic,  wdiile 
Susie  indulged  without  restraint  her  very  ill-timed  merri- 
ment. 

As  I  got  upon  my  feet  the  whole  family  came  forward 
to  see  if  I  was  hurt. 

"  Children  !  Susie  ! "  I  could  hear  Mr.  Thornton  saying ; 
"  hush  !  don't  ye  know  no  better  'n  to  laugh  1  Did  you, 
sir,  git  stung  1  " 

"I  —  I  thought  the  bees  were  coming  rather  near/'  I 
remarked,  cheerfully,  pressing  my  hat  into  shape,  "'  so  I 
concluded  to  stand  back  a  little." 

"  Sartin,  sartin  !  "  said  Mr.  Thornton. 

"  Susie  !  "  giggled  George  Washington,  "  he  thought 
he  'd  Stan'  back  a  little  !  he,  he,  he  !  " 


WR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  283 

"Didn't  his  arms  and  legs  fly  for  about  a  minute, 
though  !  "  snickered  Andrew  Jackson. 

"  Shall  we  go  and  examine  the  operations  of  the  bees  1 
I  feel  a  lively  interest  in  bees."  And  I  put  on  my  hat, 
pulling  it  gayly  over  the  aching  eyebrow. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Thornton,  "  the  bees  have  been 
so  kind  o'  shook  up  't  won't  be  very  safe  to  go  near  'em 
right  away." 

"  Ah  !  you  think  so  1  A  sting  .is  nothing  —  a  —  noth- 
ing dangerous,  is  it  1 " 

"0  no  ;  but  it 's  sometimes  plaguy  uncomf  table,"  said 
Mr.  Thornton,  "  that 's  all." 

"  That  all  ^  "  said  I,  glad  to  hear  it.  "  I  'm  sure  that 's 
nothing  so  very  dreadful.  However,  if  you  think  we'd 
better  wait  until  the  bees  get  a  little  quiet,  I  can  restrain 
my  curiosity." 

Susie  had  found  an  excuse  to  go  back  to  the  hive.  I 
should  have  been  glad  of  any  excuse  to  return  at  the  same 
instant  to  the  hotel.  I  had  seen  enough  of  her,  and  cer- 
tair.ly  had  heard  enough.  My  interest  in  the  Thorntons 
was  satiated.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  did  n't  want 
to  marry.  The  country  was  not  so  charming  as  I  had  an- 
ticipated.    I  very  much  preferred  the  town. 

"Wal,  may  as  well  go  into  the  house,  I  guess,"  said 
]SIr.  Thornton,  leading  the  way. 

So  we  went  in.  The  door  of  a  close,  gloomy  little  par- 
lor was  thrown  open,  and  I  was  requested  to  enter  and 
make  myself  at  home. 

"  You  must  go  in  and  entertain  him  while  I  help  Susie 

slick  up  a  little,"  I  heard  Mrs.  Thornton  whisper  at  the  door. 

So    Mr.  Thornton    came  in,  sat  down  in  his   rolled-up 

shirt-sleeves,  put  one  leg  over  the  other,  hung  his  hat  on 

his  knee,  and  entertained  me. 

Of  the  entertainment,  however,  the  most  I  remember  is, 


284  MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

that  I  not  only  experienced  an  ever-increasing  anguish  in 
the  part  which  had  been  stung,  but  discovered,  to  my  con- 
sternation, that  it  was  swelling  rapidly. 

"  I  knowed  a  man  once  got  stung  on  the  head,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Thornton,  bees  being  the  topic  of  conversation, 
*^and  he  was  blind  for  three  days  arter  it,  and  his  head 
swelled  up  as  big  as  half  a  barrel." 

Having  entertained  me  with  this  extraordinary  fact,  the 
worthy  man  withdrew.  .  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  looked  in 
the  glass  over  the  mantel-piece.  Appalling  spectacle  ! 
My  organ  of  locality  was  growing,  —  it  had  already  at- 
tained the  size  of  a  walnut,  —  and  was  fast  swelling  to  the 
dimensions  of  an  egg.  T  caught  up  my  hat  and  pitched  it 
recklessly  on  my  forehead.  As  I  was  drawing  on  my 
gloves  I  heard  whispers. 

"  I  can't  go  in !  I  shall  laugh,  I  know  I  shall  I  "  fol- 
lowed by  a  suppressed  giggle. 

"  Why,  Susie,  don't  be  so  foolish  ! "  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"  Come  !  I  '11  go  in  with  you  !  " 

More  whispers,  a  little  fluttering,  and  in  came  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Thornton,  catching  me  with  my  hat  and  one  glove 
on.  Retreat  being  thus  cut  off,  I  sat  down  again  in  the 
obscurest  corner,  with  the  unstung  hemisphere  of  my 
phrenology  in  the  light  and  the  other  in  shadow. 

Susie  seated  herself  opposite,  with  her  eyes  downcast, 
looking  rigid,  red,  and  as  utterly  unattractive  as  possible. 
She  never  once  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  but  now  and 
then  appeared  seized  by  an  almost  ungovernable  impulse 
to  giggle,  after  which  she  became  more  astonishingly  rigid 
and  red  than  before. 

Mrs.  Thornton  and  I  were  discussing  the  weather,  with 
now  and  then  an  awful  interval  of  silence,  when  Susie, 
who,  to  conceal  her  embarrassment,  had  turned  her  eyes 
out  of  the  window,  suddenly  started  back. 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  285 

"  Mother,  there  comes  Peleg  !  " 

And  alraost  imraediately  I  saw  standing  in  the  door  a 
young  man  in  light  summer  clothes,  with  ruddy-brown 
cheeks,  a  long  nose,  and  a  droll  expression  of  countenance, 
nodding  and  winking  like  a  harlequin. 


V. 

p.    GREEN. 

"Come  in,  Peleg,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "Mr.  Blazay, 
this  is  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Green." 

Mr.  Green  made  an  extravagant  flourish,  shook  my 
hand  very  hard,  bowed  extremely  low,  and  remarked, 
through  his  nose,  that  he  was  most  happy. 

"  Did  n't  know,  though,  ye  had  company,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. He  looked  around  for  a  seat,  and  finally,  part- 
ing his  coat-tails,  sat  down  near  Susie.  "Fine  weather 
now  we're  having,  ISIr.  Blazaway." 

"Mrs.  Thornton  and  I  were  just  remarking  that  the 
weather  was  fine,"  I  answered,  dryly. 

Mrs.  Thornton  looked  disconcerted  by  the  neighbor's 
appearance,  and  after  fidgeting  a  minute  left  the  room. 

"  Grand  good  weather  for  hay,"  said  Mr.  Green.  "  Brings 
out  the  rakes  —  hem  !  " 

Susie  looked  slyly  at  him,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  meant 
that  for  a  hit  at  me.     I  was  n't  sure  about  it,  so  I  kept  still. 

"  Smashing  good  crop  o'  hay  this  season ;  beats  every- 
thing ! "  said  Mr.  Green,  lifting  his  left  foot  and  holding 
it  with  his  hand  over  the  instep  across  his  right  knee. 
"Grass  look  well  where  you've  been,  Mr.  Blazaway  1  or 
don't  you  notice  much  about  grass?" 


286  MR.    BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

I  replied  that,  wherever  I  had  taken  the  pains  to  ob- 
serve, everything  looked  to  me  exceedingly  Green,  keeping 
my  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  him  as  I  spoke. 

"  Sho  ! "  said  Mr.  Green,  looking  at  me  steadily  in  re- 
turn, and  scratcliing  his  chin.  Then  he  turned  and  said 
in  a  hoarse  whisper  to  Susie,  "  What  an  all-fired  wen  that 
gentleman  has  got  over  his  left  eye  !  ye  noticed  it  1 " 

A  wen  ?  that  was  the  bee-sting  !  All-fired  1  it  ivas  all- 
fired  !  Had  Susie  noticed  it  1  In  turning  my  face  in 
order  to  stare  down  the  insolent  intruder  who  called  me 
Mr.  Blazaway,  I  had  exposed  the  sw^elling,  and  Susie,  who 
stole  a  glance  at  me  just  then,  must  also  have  seen  it. ' 

Mr.  Green  reached  deep  into  a  pocket  of  his  light  sum- 
mer trousers,  brought  out  a  jack-knife,  and  commenced 
honing  it  on  his  shoe. 

"  Traded  horses  agin,  Susie." 

"  What  a  hand  you  are  to  swap  horses,  Peleg  !  "  she 
said,  thawing  into  conversation  imder  his  genial  influ- 
ence. 

"Put  off  the  colt ;  got  a  four-year-old  chestnut ;  nice, 
tell  yeou  !  Bring  him  round  and  let  ye  ride  after  him  to- 
morrer." 

"  Who  did  you  trade  with  1 "  said  Miss  Thornton. 

''Stranger.  Do'no' his  name.  Stumped  him  in  the  road. 
Says  I,  '  I  got  the  mate  to  that  beast  you  're  drivin',  friend,' 
says  I.  '  Hev  ye  ? '  says  he.  '  Better  hitch,'  says  I,  '  and 
jest  step  over  in  the  lot  here  and  see,'  says  I.  He  said  he 
did  n't  object  if  I  had  anything  to  show ;  so  he  tied  to  the 
fence,  —  mighty  slick  critter  that  of  hisn  !  '  Yes,'  says  T, 
'  either  you  want  my  animil,  or  I  want  yourn,  do'no'  which 
till  we  tjdk,'  says  I.  Wa'al,we  made  a  dicker,"  added  Pe- 
leg Green,  shutting  his  knife  with  a  loud  click,  and  wink- 
ing significantly. 

He  was  going  on  to  expatiate  on  the  merits  of  the  four- 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  287 

year-old  chestnut,  when,  to  my  great  relief,  ^Ir.  Thornton 
came  to  the  door  and  called  him  out. 

"  I  'd  like  to  speak  with  you  a  minute,  Peleg."  And 
Peleg,  though  with  visible  reluctance,  withdrew. 

I  arose,  walked  straight  to  Susie,  and  frankly  took  her 
hand.  She  looked  up  with  a  frightened,  inquiring  glance, 
afraid,  as  I  afterward  learned,  that  I  was  going  to  propose 
to  her  on  the  spot. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  I  said,  "  to  have  formed  your  ac- 
quaintance. I  shall  always  remember  you  with  interest, 
and  if  I  ever  come  this  way  again  I  shall  certainly  do  my- 
self the  pleasure  of  visiting  you." 

She  appeared  quite  bewildered  a  moment,  then  a  gleam 
of  intelligence  brightened  her  flice. 

"  Are  you  going,  sir  ?  "  And,  as  .1  was  hurt  to  observe, 
the  gleam  became  a  gleam  of  delight. 

"  I  have  a  call  to  make,"  said  I ;  "  and  after  what  is 
past  we  may  as  well  be  frank  with  each  other.  I  think  it 
is  quite  evident  to  us  both  that  —  " 

"  That  you  don't  like  me,"  she  said,  while  I  was  stam- 
mering. "  That 's  it ;  and  you  need  n't  take  the  trouble 
of  putting  it  in  some  more  polite  way." 

She  laughed  as  she  spoke ;  all  her  embarrassment  had 
vanished;  she  looked  radiant,  even  charming;  and  alto- 
gether such  a  change  had  come  over  her  that  I  was  aston- 
ished. 

"  Rather  say  that  7/021  have  not  fallen  in  love  with  me," 
I  answered. 

"That's  true,  I  haven't!"  she  confessed,  with  re- 
freshing naivete.  "  And  do  you  blame  me  ]  I  was  almost 
frightened  to  death  when  I  heard  you  were  coming.  And 
it  was  so  odd,  — just  as  Peleg  would  go  and  look  at  a  colt 
he  thought  of  buying  !  " 

I  sincerely  entreated  her  pardon  for  the  affront. 


288  MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

"0,  no  affront.  I  don't  care  now,  since  yon  don't  want 
to  marry  me."     And  she  appeared  quite  joyous. 

"You  are  glad  of  that.  Peleg  will  be  glad  too,"  I 
could  not  help  saying. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  he  will,"  she  confessed,  gayly. 

"  You  like  Mr.  Green  1 " 

"  0  yes ;  he  amuses  me  ever  so  much.  You  don't  know 
how  funny  he  can  be.  But  you  must  n  't  go  now,  sir,"  she 
cried,  taking  my  hat  from  me.     "  Stay  to  tea,  won't  you  1 " 

I  hardly  know  how  it  was ;  but  she  had  her  way,  and  I 
stayed. 

"  You  must  forgive  me  for  laughing,"  said  Susie,  only 
half  penitently;  "but  you  can't  guess  how  glad  I  was 
that  you  got  stung.  Don't  you  think  it  was  a  judgment 
upon  you  1 " 

"  You  knew  it  1 "  I  said,  putting  my  hand  to  my  egg ;  for 
the  swelling  had  about  reached  that  size. 

"  Of  course  I  did ;  and  that  was  the  reason  I  could  n't 
look  at  you.  But  I  am  very  sorry  now,  —  indeed  I  am," 
she  added,  compassionately,  seeing  how  bad  a  sting  it  was. 
"  And  to  think  Peleg  took  it  for  a  wen  ! " 

At  that  she  had  to  laugh  again.  But,  on  the  whole, 
she  manifested  a  good  deal  of  true  womanly  sympathy  for 
my  suffering,  and  went  out  to  prepare  some  salt  and  vine- 
gar, which  she  said  was  her  mother's  remedy  for  stings. 

She  did  not  return.  But  presently  Mrs.  Thornton  came 
in,  bringing  a  saucer  with  some  liquid  and  a  rag  in  it, 
dressed  my  brow,  and  took  me  out  to  tea. 


MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  289 


VI. 


We  found  Mr.  Thornton  and  the  little  Thorntons  wait- 
ings —  the  distinguished  urchins  eying  the  table  ravenously, 
as  if  they  did  not  see  cake  every  day. 

Then  Susie  and  Peleg  came  out  of  the  kitchen  together, 
looking  supremely  satisfied  with  each  other,  and  amazingly 
confidential, 

Mr.  Thornton  then  let  slip  those  dogs  of  war,  the  juniors, 
whose  ardor  he  had  with  difficulty  restrained,  and  with  a 
rattle  and  a  clatter  and  a  rush  they  flew  to  the  table, 
storming  the  bread  and  butter,  scaling  the  salt-fish,  carry- 
ing the  breast-works  of  cold  chicken,  and  assaulting  the 
wings. 

In  the  mean  time  the  lovers  managed  to  get  me  into 
the  seat  designed  for  Peleg,  while  the  chair  intended  for 
me,  next  to  Susie,  was  coolly  usurped  by  that  gentleman. 
Peleg  kept  the  youngsters  in  a  constant  roar  of  laughter 
with  his  jokes  and  queer  contortions  of  face,  which  I  was 
chagrined  to  see  were  greatly  enjoyed  by  Susie. 

"  0  Peleg  !  "  she  exclaimed  at  last,  "  you  '11  certainly 
kill  me  with  your  ridiculous  stories." 

^'Wa'al,  then,  I  won't  tell  any  more,"  said  Peleg. 
"  Fact,  I  'm  a  melancholeric  man  myself,  nat'rally.  Studied 
to  be  a  minister  once  :  this  is  the  way  I  looked,"  —  sleeking 
down  his  hair  with  a  meek  and  droll  expression.  "  That 
was  when  I  was  Presbyterian.  Then  I  turned  Methodist, 
and  looked  so,"  —  and  out  of  the  tearful  seriousness  of  a 
broad,  unctuous  countenance  broke  a  sympathetic,  hopeful 
smile.  "  After  that  I  thought  of  turning  Baptist,  and  got 
as  far  as  this,"  —  a  sapient,  hollow-checked  visage,  with  a 
13  s 


290  MR.  BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

one-sided  pucker;  ''when  I  switched  off  on  the  Univer- 
salist  track,  as  thus," —  changing  instantly  to  the  aspect  of 
a  fat  and  jolly  parson.  "  From  that  to  swapping  horses  is 
the  easiest  thing  in  natur'.  Then  I  looked  so,"  —  putting 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek  for  a  quid,  and  inclining  his  head 
sidewise,  with  the  honestest  smooth  face,  —  "  and  talked 
this  way  :  That 's  a  dreadful  kind  beast,  my  friend ;  true 
and  sound  in  every  way  I "  —  spoken  with  a  good-natured 
drawd  that  convulsed  the  youngsters. 

I  sympathized  with  Mrs.  Thornton,  w^ho  gi-avely  reproved 
Mr.  Green  for  his  levity  in  taking  off  the  different  denomi- 
nations. 

"  Call  hoss-jockeying  one  of  the  denominations  1  Wa  al, 
we  have  our  backsliders  too,"  said  Peleg,  —  "  from  the  backs 
of  unbroke  colts.  Speaking  of  my  being  a  melancholeric 
man,  Susie,  I  was  put  in  mind  to-day  how  choleric  I  got 
when  my  melons  w^as  stole  last  summer.  Met  one  o'  them 
fellers." 

"  Did  you  ?  0,  you  must  tell  Mr.  Blazay  that  story, 
Peleg  !  " 

And  Peleg  told  it  for  my  especial  edification. 

"  Ye  see,  Mr.  Blazay,  there  's  a  tribe  over  the  mountain 
we  call  Shanghays,  —  gre't  slab-sided  lummoxes,  —  legs  so 
long  they  hev  to  go  down  sullar  to  tie  their  shoes  ;  and 
feet  so  big  they  hev  to  use  the  forks  of  the  road  for  a  boot- 
jack. Wa'al,  a  set  of  'em  come  over  to  our  pond  a-fishing 
last  summer,  and  as  fish  w^ould  n't  bite  they  concluded 
watermillions  would  (that 's  w^hat  they  call  'em),  and  went 
over  to  my  patch,  a  couple  of  'em,  to  hook  some ;  when  I 
happened  along  and  ketched  'em  at  it. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  says  I,  '  how  ye  gitting  on  1  Don't  be  in  a 
hurry,'  says  I,  as  they  dropped  the  melons  and  started  to 
run.  '  Better  take  some  with  ye,'  says  I.  '  Plenty  of  'em. 
Fust-rate,  too.     Here,  I  can  git  ye  some  a  good  deal  bet- 


MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  291 

ter  than  these.'  They  felt  awful  cheap  ;  but  I  made  'em 
hold  their  arms,  and  loaded  'em  up  with  the  best  I  could 
find.  '  There,'  says  I,  '  you  see  I  know  a  great  deal  better 
than  you  do  how  to  pick,  so  next  time  you  want  any,  s'pos- 
ing  you  come  and  ask  me.  It  looks  as  if  I  was  mean 
about  my  melons,  when  folks  hev  to  come  and  steal  'em,' 
says  I. 

"  So  I  let  'em  go.  But  I  thought  I  'd  like  to  hear  what 
sort  of  a  story  they  'd  tell  the  others  ;  so  I  cut  around 
through  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  got  behind  a  stump  by 
the  pond,  where  I  could  see  what  was  going  on,  though  I 
could  n't  hear  much.  They  left  their  fishing  and  ripped 
open  the  melons,  and  appeared  to  be  heving  a  glorious 
good  time  over  'em,  when  a  dog  they  had  along  with  'em 
got  hold  of  a  rind,  choked,  and  keeled  over.  They  thought 
he  was  dead;  and  then  you  should  have  seen  the  old 
scratch  that  was  to  pay  !  '  Pizon  !  pizon  ! '  I  could  hear 
'em  spluttering.  They' thought  I  had  plugged  the  melons 
and  put  arsenic  into  'em ;  which  accounted  for  my  picking 
out  such  partic'lar  nice  ones.  They  dropped  their  slices, 
and  spit  out  what  they  'd  been  eating,  and  made  a  stampede 
for  the  village,  to  the  doctor's ;  and  about  half  an  hour 
after  they  might  have  been  seen  going  over  the  mountain, 
sick  as  death  with  epicac,  for  the  doctor  had  give  each  on 
'em  a  rousing  good  dose.  This  is  the  way  they  looked," 
And  Peleg  illustrated,  while  everybody  laughed  but  me. 

I  had  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing.  I  arose  to  go, 
pleading  an  engagement.  "A  lady  I  met  in  the  cars, 
Mrs."  —  referring  to  the  widow's  card  —  Mrs.  Pellet." 

"  Sho  !  "  said  Peleg.  "  Not  Mrs.  Dr.  Pellet,  —  Laury 
Scranton  that  was  1 " 

"  The  very  same  ;  and  a  very  interesting  young  widow, 
with  twenty  thousand  dollars." 

"  Widow  !  "  gasped  P.  Green,  with  nobody's  face  but  his 


292  MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

own  this  time ;  and  a  very  astonished  face  it  was.  ^'  See 
here,  ye  don't  say  1  Dr.  Pellet,  he  a'n't  dead,  is  he  ? " 

I  assured  him  that  the  excellent  doctor  was  deceased. 

"  I  take  it  he  was  a  dear  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Green." 

"  Yaas  !  no  !  I  mean —  S  'pose  ye  wait  a  minute ;  guess 
I  '11  walk  along  with  ye  ;  got  my  colts  to  look  after  ;  seen 
my  hat,  Susie  1 " 

While  Mr.  Green,  in  his  agitation,  was  hunting  for  his 
hat,  I  shook  hands  with  the  family,  and  accepted,  because 
I  could  not  refuse,  an  earnest  invitation  to  a  farmer's  din- 
ner the  next  day.  I  then  departed,  pursued  wildly  out  of 
the  house  by  Peleg,  pulling  on  his  hat. 


VII. 

p.  green's  diplomacy. 

"  Think  o'  going  to  see  Laury  —  Mrs.  Pellet  —  to-night  ? " 
said  Peleg. 

"  I  have  promised  to  call  on  her,"  I  answered,  evasively. 

"  I  'd  no  idee  of  her  being  a  widow,"  said  Mr.  Green,  with 
an  aguish  shake  in  his  voice.  "  Got  much  acquainted 
with  her  1  Could  n't,  though,  I  s'pose,  jest  seeing  her  in 
the  cars.  Seem  to  take  the  doctor's  death  perty  hard, 
or  could  n't  you  judge  as  to  that  ? " 

"  Not  so  hard  but  that  she  may  be  consoled,  I  should 
say." 

"  Consoled  !  yaas  !  "  said  Peleg,  sardonically.  "  Maybe 
you  'd  like  to  hev  the  pi'ivilege  of  consoling  her.  Would 
n't  you  like  now  to  hev  me  go  and  show  ye  where  the 
house  is  ? " 

"  0  no,  I  would  n't  have  you  put  yourself  to  that 
trouble,   Mr.   Green." 


MR.    BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  293 

"  No  trouble  at  all,  Mr.  Blazay.  Fact  is,  I  —  I  ruther 
think  't  would  be  neighborly,  if  I  sli'd  drop  in  on  her 
myself." 

"  But,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  go  out  of  your  way  on  my 
account." 

"  0  no !  0  no  ! "  said  Peleg,  keeping  close  at  my  side. 
If  I  walked  fast,  he  walked  fast ;  if  I  walked  slow,  he 
walked  slow.  "  As  a  friend,  Mr.  Blazay,"  he  said,  confiden- 
tially, "  allow  me  to  say  to  you  that  that  bunch  over  your 
eye  looks  bad.  Seems  to  me  /  should  n't  want  to  be  mak- 
ing calls  on  the  ladies  if  /  hed  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Green,  for  your  very  kind  suggestion. 
But  I  hardly  think  one  so  afflicted  as  Mrs.  Pellet  will  look 
much  at  externals.  I  can  now  find  the  house  very  well 
without  your  assistance.  Good  night."  And  I  turned  the 
street  corner. 

"  On  the  hull,  guess  I  may  as  well  go  along  too,"  observed 
Peleg;  "  me  and  Laury  being  old  friends  so." 

I  reminded  him  of  his  excuse  for  abruptly  leaving  the 
Thorntons,  and  expressed  concern  lest  his  colts  should  suf- 
fer from  neglect. 

"  Waal,  I  guess  the  colts  can  take  care  o'  themselves  for 
an  hour  or  so,"  said  Mr.  Green. 

We  reached  the  house,  and  rang. 

"  Hello  !  "  said  Green,  "  a'n't  you  going  in  1 " 

"  Not  at  this  present  moment,"  I  answered,  walking  off. 

"  Waal !  "  said  the  astonished  Peleg,  "if  I  'd  known  — 
Why  did  n't  you  say,  and  not  fool  a  fellow  this  wayl" 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  I  left  him  to  call 
alone  on  the  widow. 

Two  hours  later,  strolling  toward  the  house,  I  saw  a 
person  in  light  summer  clothes  come  out ;  heard  a  voice 
which  I  recognized  as  P.  Green's,  and  another  which  I  dis- 
tinguished as  the   mourning  voice  of  the   young  widow. 


294  MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

They  separated,  and  the  hght  summer  clothes  came  toward 
ni^  at  a  fast  walk,  with  an  air  of  hurry  and  abstraction. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Green,"  I  said,  pleasantly. 

"Hello!  that  you,  Mr.  BlazayV'  said  Peleg.  "Where 
ye  bound  now  1 " 

"  Enjoying  a  little  stroll,"  I  replied,  leisurely.  "  It 's  a 
charming  evening." 

"  It  is  so,"  exclaimed  Peleg,  with  returning  agitation, 
"  but  ruther  cool." 

"  It  is,"  said  I,  "  chilly.  I  should  think  you  would  suffer 
in  those  thin  garments,  Mr.  Green." 

"  Waal,  my  clo'es  be  ruther  thin,"  Peleg  admitted. 

"  And,  allow  me  to  say,  it  seems  to  me  your  only  safety 
is  in  a  rapid  continuation  of  your  walk.  I  will  not  detain 
you  an  instant." 

"  See  here  !  "  said  Peleg  ;  "  ye  a'n't  going  in  there  to- 
night, air  ye  1     After  nine  o'clock  !  " 

"After  ninel"  said  I.  "  Gentlemen  seldom  make  calls 
before  that  hour,  do  they  ?  " 

I  left  him  standing  in  his  airy  attire,  gazing  jealously 
after  me.  I  returned  to  the  door  he  had  just  quitted,  and 
entered,  admitted  by  the  charming  Mrs.  Pellet  herself 

She  received  me  with  her  sweetest  subdued  smile ;  and, 
seated  quietly  at  her  side  in  her  uncle's  parlor,  after  apolo- 
gizing for  my  unpresentable  eyebrow,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  from  her  own  lips  the  full  particulars  of  my  busi- 
ness in  Shoemake  ;  Susie  having  communicated  them  to 
P.  Green,  and  P.  Green  to  the  widow. 

"  T  little  thought,  when  I  praised  her  to  you,"  she  said 
with  .ojentle  reproach,  "  that  I  was  praising  year  future 
bride." 

"  Unfortunately  for  my  hopes,"  I  said,  "  Susie's  affec- 
tions seem  to  be  already  engaged." 

"  Indeed  !  who  is  the  happy  man  1 " 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  295 

"  Our  friend  who  just  went  from  here,  —  Mr.  Peleg 
Green." 

The  mourning  eyelashes  were  raised  with  an  expression 
of  mild  and  sorrowful  surprise. 

''But  Peleg — I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "he  doesn't  care 
for  her." 

"  Madam,  he  is  her  devoted  admirer.  You  should  have 
seen  him  fly  to  the  rescue  the  moment  he  heard  of  my 
aiTival.  Indeed,  so  well  satisfied  am  I  of  their  mutual 
attachment,  that  I  have  quite  abandoned  my  foolish  pro- 
ject." 

Mrs.  Pellet  heaved  a  sigh. 


viir. 

ONE    OF   PELEG's   JOKES. 

The  next  day  I  dined  with  the  Thorntons. 

Susie  improved  on  acquaintance.  After  dinner  she 
showed  me  her  cheeses,  and  took  me  into  the  garden,  and 
was  gathering  a  bouquet  for  me  ;  and,  as  I  may  as  well 
confess,  a  very  delightful  familiarity  was  growing  up  be- 
tween us,  when  —  in  rushed  Mr.  Green. 

Again,  in  the  evening,  I  went  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
widow,  and  was  enjoying  a  very  quiet  and  pleasing  conver- 
sation with  that  charming  lady,  when  —  in  popped  Peleg. 
Which  of  the  two  fair  ones  did  he  fancy'?  or  had  he  an 
Oriental  preference  for  both  1 

Day  after  day,  as  I  lingered  in  the  place,  without  well 
knowing  why,  the  fellow  seemed  to  have  given  up  his 
ordinary  pursuits  in  order  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to 
their  guardianship.     He  followed  me  pertinaciously,  from 


296  MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

village  to  farm,  and  from  farm  to  village,  as  if  the  great 
business  of  existence  with  him  was  to  prevent  any  confi- 
dential communication  between  me  and  either  of  the 
aforesaid  young  women. 

Shrewd,  energetic,  good-looking,  not  half  so  illiterate  as 
he  appeared,  making  fun  wherever  he  went,  he  was,  I 
found,  a  very  general  favorite.  But  my  original  prejudice 
against  him,  instead  of  diminishing,  increased,  and  became 
very  violent  when  I  observed  that  Susie,  who  had  soon 
learned  to  entertain  me  with  a  simple  grace,  a  bird-like 
joyousness,  when  we  w^ere  alone  together,  invariably  grew 
reserved  toward  me  the  moment  he  appeared. 

So  two  or  three  (I  don't  know  but  four)  weeks  passed. 
And  still  some  fascination  kept  me  in  Shoemake.  And  still 
Mr.  Green  followed  me  with  that  suspicious  nose  of  his, 
which  I  observed  with  satisfaction  was  long,  and  offered 
excellent  conveniences  for  tweaking,  until  one  afternoon 
found  us  four  embarked  in  a  sail  boat  on  Shoemake  Creek. 
I  had  invited  Susie  and  Mrs.  Pellet,  and  Peleg  had  invited 
himself,  joining  us  just  as  we  were  getting  into  the  boat. 

"  Hello  ! "  said  he,  appearing  very  much  astonished. 
"Jest  in  the  nick  o'  time,  a'n't  1 1  Seems  to  be  plenty  o' 
room  in  yer  canoe  ;  guess  I  may  as  w^ell  jump  in." 

And  jump  in  he  did  accordingly,  before  I  could  push  off. 

The  water  sets  back  a  mile  or  more  from  the  dam,  and 
raises  Shoemake  Creek  to  the  dignity  of  a  river.  Through 
green  meadows  it  winds  placidly  between  banks  fringed 
with  alders,  willows,  and  elms,  festooned  with  w^oodbines 
and  wild  grapes. 

The  wind  failed  us  as  we  were  returning,  and  I  made 
Peleg  work  his  passage.  He  rested  on  the  oars,  and  we 
floated  down  the  current,  which  was  calm  and  glassy  under 
the  evening  sky,  and  Susie  sang  a  song  that  made  me  feel 
unusually  sentimental,  and  the  widow  sigh,  "  How  sweet !  " 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  297 

"  Waal,  it  is  some  sweet,"  Peleg  admitted,  as  we  drifted 
around  a  bend  of  the  stream,  and  came  upon  an  exquis- 
itely tranquil  picture  of  cool  green  water  embowered  in 
cool  green  foliage  overhanging  the  bank. 

"  Gals,  I'm  a  going  to  show  ye  the  mill-dam,"  said  Peleg, 
rowing  down  stream.  "  Did  you  ever  see  it,  Mr.  Blazay  1  I 
come  perty  nigh  going  over  the  dam  thing  once." 

"  Peleg,"  said  the  melancholy  Laura,  "  please  don't  be 
profane,  will  you  1 " 

''No,  I  won't,"  said  Peleg,  solemnly.  "I  mean  the 
mill-d— m.      Can't   guess    how  I    saved  myself,  Mr.  Bla- 


zay 


r' 


By  using  your  nose  for  a  setting-pole  ]  "  I  suggested. 

"  Mr.  Blazay,"  said  Peleg,  "  I  owe  you  one  !  But  my 
nose  a'n't  quite  so  long  as  that  man's  was  who  always  had 
to  take  two  steps  forward  to  touch  the  end  on 't.  He  was 
brother  to  the  man  that  was  so  tall "  (measuring  me  from 
head  to  foot)  "  he  had  to  go  up  a  ladder  to  comb  his  hair. 
And  he  could  run  so  —  'specially  if  a  bee  was  after  him  — 
that,  give  him  a  fair  chance,  he  could  come  out  several 
rods  ahead  of  his  own  shadow.  He  ran  around  an  apple- 
tree  once  so  fast  that  he  'most  ketched  up  with  himself, 
and  could  see  his  own  coat-tails  jest  ahead  of  him." 

So  much  I  got  for  descending  to  the  vulgarity  of  a  per- 
sonal allusion.  Even  Laura  was  forced  to  smile,  and  Susie 
fairly  screamed. 

"  Everybody  laughs  at  those  jokes ;  I  always  do,"  said 
I,  "  whenever  I  hear  them.  I  can  remember  laughing  at 
them  as  long  ago  as  when  I  was  a  small  boy." 

"  Them  jokes  1  What  very  old  bachelors  they  must  be, 
then  ! "  said  the  impudent  fellow.  "  They  must  be  bald 
enough  by  this  time  !  How  many  years  ago  did  you 
sayr' 

"  We  all  admire  your  wit,  Mr.  Green,"  I  replied,  sternly. 

13* 


298  MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

"  But  I  would  advise  you  just  now  to  bestow  your  chief 
attention  upon  the  management  of  the  boat,  for  you  are 
getting  us  into  a  dangerous  position." 

Peleg  gi'inned  as  he  turned  the  boat  in  the  current,  let- 
ting the  stern  swing  around  toward  the  dam.  The  swift, 
smooth  water  shot  beneath  us  dark  and  strong,  breaking 
into  a  silver  curve  almost  within  reach  of  my  cane,  then 
plunging  with  thunder  and  foam  down  into  an  agitated 
and  vapory  basin.  Mr.  Green  suffered  us  to  drift  almost 
to  the  brink.  I  was  in  the  stern,  and  could  look  straight 
over  the  falls.     The  girls  screamed. 

"  Don't  be  the  least  mite  scared,  gals,"  said  the  facetious 
Peleg,  keeping  the  boat  on  the  verge  with  easy  strokes  of 
the  oars.  "  Even  if  she  should  go  over  I  could  ketch  her 
'fore  Mr.  Blazay's  coat-tails  touched  the  water,  and  row 
her  right  up  over  the  dam  again." 

"  Mr.  Green,"  I  cried,  seriously,  "  take  care  !  An  oar 
may  break,  then  over  we  go, — nothing  could  prevent  it." 

"All  but  Laury,"  said  Peleg;  "she  can't  git  over  a  dam, 
ye  know  ! " 

"  By  Heaven,"  said  I,  alarmed;  "  we  are  going  !  " 

"  Yes,  Blazay  first,"  chuckled  Peleg.  "  He  likes  to  be 
first  in  everything." 

"  I  see,"  said  I,  now  much  excited,  "  I  am  destined  to 
give  that  fellow  a  thrashing." 

"  Sho  ! "  said  Mr.  Green,  "  I  want  to  know.  This  is  a 
leetle  more  fan  than  I  bargained  fur.  I  'xpected  the  gals 
would  be  a  trifle  skittish,  but  I  did  n't  think  Blazay  would 
kick  in  the  traces." 

We  were  right  over  the  smoking  chasm,  where  a  single 
false  stroke  of  an  oar  might  precipitate  us  into  it.  Susie, 
T\ith  a  pale,  frightened  face,  instinctively  shrank  to  my 
side  and  clasped  my  arm.  I  felt  a  thrill,  which  made  me 
for  a  moment  forget  the  danger.     The  spray  wet  us,  thun- 


MR.    BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  299 

der  aud  miat  filled  the  air,  the  whirlpool  foamed  and 
boiled  below,  and  I  was  happy. 

"  0  dear,  dear  Peleg ! "  pleaded  Laura^  her  rich  mel- 
low tones  heard  even  above  the  roar  of  the  falls,  "  if  you 
have  any  regard  for  me,  don't." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Peleg,  pretending  to  lose  his 
power  over  the  boat,  and  actually  letting  the  stern  project 
over  the  dam. 

I  threw  my  arm  around  Susie,  and  she  nestled  trem- 
blingly to  my  heart.  At  the  sight  that  wretch  Peleg 
missed  a  stroke.  The  boat  shot  forward,  —  we  hung  upon 
the  brink  !  He  struck  the  blades  again,  just  in  time  to 
check  our  progress,  and,  putting  forth  all  his  strength, 
might  have  saved  us,  had  not  Laura,  beside  herself  with 
terror,  sprung  up  in  the  bow  of  the  boat. 

"  Mercy !  "  she  shrieked,  and,  flinging  abroad  her  lovely 
arms,  threw  herself  headlong  upon  Peleg. 

Of  course  that  settled  the  business.  The  boat  swept 
sheer  over  the  dam  with  all  on  board,  tilling  and  capsizing 
instantly. 


IX. 

COLD   WATER. 

A  PiERCiXG  shriek  went  up  as  we  went  down.  It  was 
the  voice  of  Laura,  which  had  cast  off  its  mourning  for  the 
wet  occasion.  Susie  uttered  not  a  word,  nor  was  Peleg 
able  to  make  any  remark,  facetious  or  otherwise,  with  the 
widow  clinging  to  his  back,  hugging  and  choking  him 
desperately. 

I  remember  a  brief  tumult  in  the  water,  arms  tossing, 
crinoline  floating,  the  boat  keel  upward,  the  eddies  rolling 


300  MR.    BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

and  sucking  us.  Then  I  was  trying  to  swim  with  a 
precious  burden,  raising  the  dripping  head  above  water, 
sinking  inevitably,  going  down  with  the  current,  touch- 
ing gravel  at  last,  and  thanking  my  stars  that  I  wa,s 
tall. 

Wading,  I  emerged,  bearing  Susie  in  my  arms,  and 
carried  her  to  the  bank. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  I,  "  you  are  safe." 

She  brushed  her  dripping  hair  from  her  eyes,  strangled 
a  little,  and  looked  up. 

I  was  bending  over  her,  kneeling.  It  was  very  roman- 
tic. I  expected  nothing  less  than  that  she  would  call  me 
her  preserver,  and  betray  at  once  her  gratitude  and  her 
love.  She  moved  her  lips,  —  her  lovely  but  wet  lips.  I 
listened  for  their  faintest  murmur.  And  this  is  what  she 
said,  — 

"  Where 'sPelegr' 

''  What 's  Peleg  to  us  T'  I  exclaimed,  sentimentally. 


"  He  's  a  good  deal  to  us,  —  to  me,  at  any  rate 


le 


declared ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her  that  Mr.  Green  had 
got  the  widow  on  the  keel  of  the  boat,  which  he  was  haul- 
ing to  the  opposite  bank. 

"  Nobody  drowned  1 " 

"  All  safe,  dearest !  " 

"You  needn't  call  me  dearest  !"  said  Miss  Thornton. 
And  she  actually  struggled  from  my  arms. 

"  Susie  !  dearest  Susie  !  "  etc. 

I  don't  remember  the  rest  of  my  speech,  and  probably 
should  not  repeat  it  if  I  could.  The  truth  is  just  this  :  I 
had  fallen  in  love  with  this  same  Susie  Thornton,  and  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  I  was  betrayed  into  a  rather 
ill-timed  declaration. 

"  Mr.  Blazay !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  strange  tone,  and 
with  a  strange  look,  in  which  were  expressed,  as  I  fondly 


MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  301 

believed,  astonishment,  rapture,  alarm.  "  How  can  you  ! 
—  you  must  not  !  —  Peleg  !  " 

I  protested.  She  was  very  much  agitated.  She  shivered 
in  her  drenched  clothes.  She  laughed  nervously.  She  ran 
down  the  stream  and  fished  out  my  hat,  which  had  floated 
ashore. 

'•'  Now  we  are  even,"  she  said,  with  unnatural  gayety. 
"  You  have  saved  my  life ;  I  have  saved  your  hat  :  and 
one  is  of  about  as  much  consequence  as  the  other  !  Why 
did  n't  you  let  me  drown  1     You  might  as  well !  " 

"All  right !  "  shouted  Peleg,  having  got  Laura  on  the 
rocks.  "  Accidents  will  happen,  ye  know,  in  the  best  reg- 
'lated  families." 

Susie  and  I  set  out,  climbing  the  banks.  The  thunder 
of  the  dam  grew  faint  behind  us,  and,  looking  back,  I  saw 
the  cascade  gleaming  white  in  the  twilight. 

"  Why,  Susie,  child  !  where  have  you  been  1 "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Thornton,  as  we  entered  the  house. 

"  0,  we  only  just  went  over  the  dam,  that 's  all,"  said 
Susie. 

"  Over  the  dam  !  "  cried  mamma. 

"  The  dam  !  "  echoed  papa. 

"  Dam  !  — dam  !  "  clamored  little  brothers,  eagarly  run- 
ning to  hear  their  sister's  narrative  of  the  shipwreck. 

I  turned  to  go.     Mr.  Thornton  grasped  my  hand. 

"  No,  sir  ! "  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  with  a 
squeeze  that  brought  tears  into  mine.  "  You  don't  leave 
this  house  to-night !  You  have  saved  our  darter's  life, 
and  d'  ye  s'pose  we  '11  see  you  go  off  in  your  wet  clo'es  1 
Not 's  long 's  my  name  's  Thornton  !  " 

I  fear  I  was  only  too  willing  to  stay.  I  wanted  one  word 
of  hope  from  Susie ;  and  although  she  appeared  indifferent 
to  my  going,  I  did  not  go, 

"  Give  him  some  o'  my  clo'es  to  put  on,  can't  we,  mother'?" 


302  MR.   BLAZAYS   EXPERIENCE. 

said  Mr.  Thornton.  "  This  way,  Mr.  Blazay ;  I  can  fit  ye, 
I  know  ! " 

He  introduced  me  to  the  spare  bedroom,  and  soon 
brought  me  my  outfit.  I  beheld  with  dismay  the  old- 
fashioned  garments.  But  the  antique  style  was  their  least 
objectionable  feature.  The  dress-coat  was  of  ample  breadth, 
the  waistcoat  of  voluptuous  dimensions,  the  pantaloons 
baggy.  But  all  were  alike  longitudinally  scanty.  They 
had  been  cut  for  a  very  much  shorter  and  stumpier  man. 
The  ends  of  the  sleeves  reached  a;  little  below  my  elbows. 
The  trousers-legs  barely  covered  my  knees,  and  appeared  de- 
cidedly averse  to  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  socks, 
whose  position  in  the  world  was  so  much  beneath  them. 
Between  waistbands  and  waistcoat  I  displayed  a  broad  zone 
of  borrowed  linen.  The  collar  of  the  coat  rode  my  back 
like  a  horse-collar. 

Mr.  Thornton  rubbed  his  hands,  and  appeared  hugely 
tickled  at  his  success  in  clothing  his  guest.  He  held  the 
candle  for  me  at  the  mirror.  I  looked  aghast  at  myself  as 
I  thought  of  meeting  Susie.  How  could  I  think  of  press- 
ing my  suit  in  a  suit  that  so  needed  stretching  1 

I  took  courage,  however,  exhibited  myself  at  the  tea- 
table,  and  joined  in  the  merriment  my  ridiculous  plight 
occasioned. 

A  delightful  evening  ensued.  Susie  was  in  high  spirits  ; 
vivacious  and  as  sweet  as  Hebe,  after  her  bath.  And, 
further,  my  presence  in  the  cottage  did  not  prove  a  signal 
for  Peleg  to  rush  in. 

The  heroes  were  sent  to  bed.  The  old  folks  shook  hands 
with  me  affectionately,  called  me  their  darter's  preserver, 
and  bade  me  good  night. 

The  moment  T  wns  left  alone  with  Susie,  her  vivacity 
subsided  :  she  became  serious  and  silent.  I  placed  myself 
at  her  side.    The  fragrant,  dear  little  hand  that  lay  idle  on 


ME.   BLAZAYS   EXPEEIENCE.  303 

her  lap,  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  seize  and  kiss. 
She  firmly  and  gently  withdrew  it. 

Then  I  talked  ;  telling  her  of  my  previous  languid,  arti- 
ficial life;  confessing  my  self-conceit  and  my  prejudices; 
avowing  my  infinite  indebtedness  to  her  for  curing  me  of 
that  folly,  for  inspiring  me  with  new  life,  with  hopes,  with 
happiness,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

"  Mr.  Blazay,"  she  exclaimed,  shivering  anew  with  agita- 
tion, "  why  do  you  tell  me  this  now  1 " 

"  Why  not  now  1 " 

"  It  is  too  late  !  " 

"  Too  late  1     It  is  not  too  late,  Susie,  if  you  love  me." 

"  Sir,"  she  cried,  almost  angrily,  "  you  must  not,  I  tell 
you  you  shall  not,  speak  to  me  of  love  !  You  have 
saved  my  life  to-night ;  I  am  grateful;  but  —  "  She  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Say  it !     Say  the  worst !  " 

She  lifted  her  face,  —  tearful,  white,  inexorable,  —  and 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a  look  I  shall  never  forget. 

"  Mr.  Blazay,  I  am  engaged." 

This  she  said  with  that  chilling  resoluteness  of  tone 
which  falls  upon  a  lover's  heart  like  death. 

I  began  to  rave  foolishly  of  perfidy,  of  the  trap  that 
was  laid  for  me  when  I  came  to  pay  my  addresses  to  one 
who  was  already  secretly  betrothed. 

"  Oh  I  but  I  was  not  when  you  came  !  " 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  "you  have  engaged  yourself 
since  1 " 

"  I  have,"  said  Susie. 

"  When  1     To  whom  ] " 

"  The  evening  after  you  arrived,  to  Peleg." 

I  leaped  to  my  feet.  Wrath  and  disgust  almost  stifled 
love.  It  was  the  last  shock  to  my  egotism  to  know  that 
she  had  accepted  Peleg  after  she  had  seen  me  I     I  would 


304  MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPEPJE^XE. 

have  rushed  from  the  house,  but  I  saw  Susie  laughing.  Dis- 
tressed as  she  was,  she  could  not  but  laugh  to  see  me  strid- 
ing thus  to  and  fro ;  and  then  I  remembered  whose  gar- 
ments were  drying  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  whose  I  had  on 
in  their  place. 

It  was  but  a  fitful,  nervous  laugh,  however,  and  it  changed 
suddenly  to  crying.  That  brought  me  to  her  feet.  I 
claimed  her ;  I  vowed  that  she  loved  me  ;  I  knew  it,  and  I 
would  not  give  her  up ;  and  more  to  the  same  effect. 

Susie  cut  me  short,  arose  in  her  dignity,  and  pointed  to 
the  candle. 

''  The  light  is  at  your  service,  sir,  whenever  you  wish  to 
retire." 

I  took  it,  and,  without  bidding  her  good  night,  went,  not 
to  bed,  but  to  the  kitchen  where  my  clothes  were  drying, 
carried  them  to  my  room,  put  them  on  again,  returned  to 
the  entry,  placed  the  candle  on  the  table,  and  was  going. 

Susie,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark,  came  out  of  the 
parlor  and  stood  before  me  with  a  face  like  death. 

''Are  you  going ]" 

"  I  am  going." 

"  Never  to  come  again  1 " 

''  Never  to  come  again." 

"Good  by!"  she  whispered,  just  audibly,  offering  me 
her  hand.     I  pressed  it,  I  kissed  it. 

"  Susie,"  I  pleaded,  "  say  that  you  will  not  marry  that 
man !  " 

"  I  have  pledged  myself ;  I  shall  marry  him,"  she  replied, 
in  a  voice  that  smote  my  heart  like  stone. 

I  regarded  her  a  moment,  —  so  fair,  so  inexorable  ;  an- 
other's^ and  not  mine,  —  then  hurried  from  the  house. 


MR.   BLAZAYS   EXPERIENCE.  305 


MY   TRUNK    IS   PACKED. 

Out  of  doors  all  was  hushed  and  quiet.  How  well  I  re- 
member that  night  !  A  dewy,  midsummer  night.  And 
there,  standing  beneath  the  moon  and  the  dim  stars,  I  had 
a  feeling  to  which  the  gayest  may  sometimes  be  brought, 
—  a  piercing  sense  of  loneliness,  as  if  I  alone  of  all  the 
world  was  w^ithout  a  home  ;  an  alien  in  the  beautiful, 
calm  universe  of  God. 

I  heard  the  throbbing  murmur  of  the  dam.  I  wandered 
toward  it,  saw  its  misty  whiteness  glitter  in  the  moon, 
stood  on  the  bank  where  I  had  first  held  Susie  in  my  arms, 
and  tortured  myself  with  vain  regrets.  After  I  had  done 
that  long  enough  I  walked  back  again,  saw  the  light  ex- 
tinguished in  the  farm-house,  and  knew  Susie  had  gone  to 
bed.  To  sleep,  perhaps  to  dream  —  of  Peleg.  I  gi'inned 
bitterly  at  the  thought ;  and  bidding  her  farewell  in  my 
heart,  and  taking  my  last  look  at  her  window,  I  returned 
to  the  tavern. 

I  packed  my  traps,  then  threw  myself  down,  and  rolled 
and  tossed  in  the  long,  dark  hours,  as  it  were  in  black 
sweltering  waves,  the  miserablest  of  men  ;  heard  the  birds 
chirp,  and  saw  the  first  gray  glimmer  of  dawn  ;  then  sank 
into  a  feverish  sleep  and  dreamed  that  Peleg  took  us  all  to 
ride  on  the  river  in  the  handle  of  his  jack-knife,  with  the 
blade  hoisted  for  a  sail. 

Awakened  by  Peleg' s  shutting  the  blade,  I  found  it  was 
broad  day.  I  arose  and  dressed  with  care.  I  breakfasted 
as  usual.  Then  I  had  my  luggage  brought  down  stairs,  to 
be  in  readiness  for  the  early  train.  Then  I  paid  my  bill. 
Then  the  landlady  came  and  told  me  there  was  a  person 


306  MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

waiting  to  see  me  in  the  parlor.  Then  I  went  into  the 
parlor ;  and  there,  sitting  with  her  bonnet  on,  and  with  a 
little  can  of  honey  in  her  lap,  was  Susie  Thornton. 

My  heart  gave  a  great  bound  at  sight  of  her.  But  I 
saw  at  once  that  it  was  not  an  occasion  to  afford  me  the 
least  ground  of  hope.  Unwillingly  she  had  come,  sent  by 
her  parents,  who  did  not  guess,  and  to  whom  she  did  not 
confess,  her  reason  for  not  wishing  to  come. 

"  Mother  promised  you  some  honey,  you  remember. 
And  when  I  told  her  you  were  going,  she  blamed  me  for 
not  giving  it  to  you,  and  made  me  come  and  bring  it,  with 
her  best  wishes,  —  and  father's." 

She  got  through  her  errand  very  prettily.  I  took  the 
can,  thanking  her.  But  0,  it  was  a  sweeter  honey  than 
that  my  soul  hungered  for.  1  took  her  hand.  She  burst 
into  tears.  She  stayed  only  to  dry  them,  and  was  going, 
when  a  loud,  blatant  voice  at  the  door  startled  us. 

"  Seen  Mr.  Blazay  anywheres  around  this  morning,  any 
on  ye  r' 

"  Peleg  !  "  gasped  Susie. 

"  He  '11  be  gone  in  a  minute  ;  wait  here,"  I  said,  fling- 
ing the  long  damask  window-curtain  over  her. 

Enter  Peleg. 


XL 

p.  GREEN    SHOWS   HIS    COLORS. 

"  Hello  !  how  do  ye  find  yerself  after  that  rather  damp 
time,  Mr.  Blazay,  hey  1 " 

"Ah,  good  morning,  sir  !  I  feel,  for  one,  as  if  I  had 
had  about  enough  of  Shoemake  and  the  kind  of  jokes 
you  practise  here." 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  307 

"Sho!  a'n't  going  off  liufFy,  be  ye?  See  a  trunk  and 
carpet-bag  in  the  entry  here,  H.  Biazay  marked  on  'em ; 
sorry  you  're  going."     And  Mr.  Green  sat  down. 

"  Have  you  any  business  with  me '? "  I  demanded.  "  For 
my  time  is  occupied." 

"  Waal,  no,  yaas,  not  exac'ly ;  do'n'  know  but  I  hev, 
and  don't  know  as  I  hev.  Truth  is,  you  've  got  me  into 
the  all-firedest  scrape,  Mr.  Biazay." 

"  I  have  got  you  into  a  —     Explain  yourself  !  " 

"Yaas,  you  hev  !  an  awful  scrape  !  "  AndPeleg  opened 
and  shut  his  jack-knife  vivaciously.  "  An'  now,  seems  to 
me,  Mr.  Biazay,  't  a'n't  exac'ly  the  fair  thing  for  you  to 
scoot  off  so  and  leave  me  in  the  lurch." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  1 " 

"  Waal,  to  come  to  the  pint,  it  's  jest  this :  I  'd  got 
the  idee  into  my  head  you  was  coming  up  here  to  marry 
Susie,  and,  ye  see,  that  's  what  upset  all  my  ca'c'lations. 
Fact  is,  may  as  well  own  up,  I  had  a  sneakin'  notion  after 
Susie  myself;  and  so,  ye  see,  when  I  heard  a  dandified 
sort  o'  chap  had  come  to.  town,  and  marched  up  to  Neigh- 
bor Thornton's  as  if  he  owned  all  this  part  of  creation  and 
had  come  to  collect  his  rents,  I  allow  it  did  give  me  the 
all-firedest  stirring  up  ever  I  had  in  my  life  !  I  was  n't 
long  gitting  into  some  clean  clo'es,  you  better  believe,  and 
making  tracks  that  way  myself,  —  about  the  time  you  was 
making  a  bee-line  from  the  orchard,  ye  rec'lect !  " 

"Mr.  Green,"  said  I,  stripping  back  my  cuffs,  "I  have 
long  owed  that  nose  of  yours  a  wrench,  and  I  perceive  that 
you  have  brought  it  here  to  afford  me  a  gratification." 

"  Yaas,  I  guess  not !  "  said  Peleg,  coolly.  "  Excuse  me, 
Mr.  Biazay  ! "  And  he  stuck  up  the  blade  of  his  knife  in 
a  manner  that  rather  discouraged  my  advances.  "I  re- 
member what  you  said  last  night  about  giving  me  a 
thrashing ;  but  thrashing  goes  against  my  grain,  as  the 


308  MR.    BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

barley  said  to  the  flail.  Heel  n't  ye  better  wait  and  hear 
what  I  've  got  to  sayl" 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  mastering  my  indignation. 

"  Waal,  as  I  was  going  to  remark,  you  hurried  up  my 
pop-corn,  Mr.  Blazay,  a  leetle  faster  'n  I  meant  to  hev  it." 

"  Poj)-corn,  sir  !  what  do  you  mean  1" 

"  0,  you  a'n't  acquainted  with  that  kind  o'  confection- 
ery ]  Plain  English,  then,  I  watched  my  chance,  and,  that 
very  night,  'fore  supper,  popped  —  you  know  what  —  the 
question.  And  she  took  me  right  up,  as  I  knew  of  course 
she  would."  And  Peleg  felt  the  edge  of  his  knife  com- 
placently. "  That  's  what  you  made  me  do,  Mr.  Blazay  ; 
and  now  I  'm  bothered  if  I  would  n't  give  boot  if  the  thing 
was  unpopped.  Come  !  "  crossing  his  legs  and  talking  very 
much  as  if  he  had  been  trading  horses,  "  what  do  you  say 
to  a  bargain  now  1  " 

The  curtain  was  trembling.  To  prevent  Mr.  Green's 
observing  it  I  rushed  upon  him,  towered  over  him,  and 
exclaimed,  "  You  knave !  you  have  not  even  been  willing  that 
I  should  speak  with  Susie ;  but  you  have  driven  the  wedge 
of  that  nose  of  yours  between  us  on  every  occasion ;  and 
now  —  " 

Peleg  quietly  stroked  the  said  nose,  and  smiled. 

"  Lemme  explain,  Mr.  Blazay.  Ye  see,  all  along,  I 
was  n't  quite  sure  o'  the  widow.  liaury  's  an  old  flame  o' 
mine,  ye  know.  Offered  myself  to  her  six  years  ago  ;  as 
it  happened,  jest  after  she  had  accepted  Dr.  Pellet,  so,  of 
course,  I  give  her  up.  And,  a'n't  it  curi's,  I  never  heard 
of  Pellet's  death  till  the  very  evening  I  'd  engaged  myself 
to  Susie  !  Do  be  so  obliging  as  to  keep  your  hands  oflf'm 
me,  Mr.  Blazay,  and  I  '11  tell  ye.  Then,  of  course,  the  old 
feelings  for  Laury  kind  o'  come  up  again,  and  I  can't  say 
that  the  twenty  thousan'  Pellet  left  her  discouraged  me  in 
the  least.     Now,  I  was  afraid  you  was  after  the  widow, 


MR.  BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  309 

and  /  wauted  the  widow.  I  had  a  suspicion  you  was  after 
Susie ;  and,  if  I  could  n't  git  the  widow,  /  wanted  Susie. 
So  there  I  was  on  the  fence.  Keep  yer  temper,  keep  yer 
temper,  Mr.  Blazay,  and  I  '11  continue.  Want  to  know  the 
reason  why  I  did  n't  propose  right  off  to  Laury  1  1  'd 
already  got  one  bird,  and  what  should  I  do  with  two^ 
But  I  might  'a'  give  you  a  chance  with  Susie,  mabby  you 
think  1  But  't  a'n't  in  natur',  is  it,  't  I  sh'd  give  the  cat  a 
bird  in  the  hand,  and  take  ray  chance  for  one  in  the  bush  ] 
That 's  jest  the  case,  Mr.  Blazay." 

"  Well,  sir  !  " 

"  Waal,  sir,"  resumed  Peleg,  ''last  night,  after  the  duck- 
ing, you  know,  I  took  Laury  home.  And  in  the  excite- 
ment I  kind  o'  forgot  myself.  I  may  as  well  own,  I  popped 
the  question  to  her  too.  She  accepted  me,  of  course  ; 
might  'a'  known  she  would.  That's  the  scrape,  Mr.  Blazay. 
Engaged  to  two  gals  to  once  !  "  And  he  put  his  head 
shrewdly  on  one  side,  as  if  studying  some  smart  plan  of 
extricating  himself. 

"  Well,  sir  !  well,  sir  !  w^hat  can  I  do  for  youl" 

"Waal,"  drawled  the  jocke}^,  "didn't  know  but  you'd 
like  to  take  one  on  'em  off  my  hands.  Good  respectable 
girls,  both  on  'em ;  hind  o'  hate  to  break  any  hearts,  or 
git  into  a  breach-o'-promise  scrape ;  but  I  can't  marry 
both,  you  know,  without  emigrating  to  Utah." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Green,  of  w^hich  of  these  deluded  young  wo- 
men do  you  desire  to  be  relieved  1 " 

"I  s'pose,"  said  Peleg,  "as  I  come  first,  knowed  both  of 
them,  and  kinder  got  my  feelings  engaged  afore  you  did, 
it 's  only  fair  I  sh'd  hev  the  first  pick.  Now  lemme  see 
which  I  '11  take.  Now  there  's  Susie  —  awful  nice  gal  — 
handy  about  the  house,  you  know  —  make  a  first-rate  wife  : 
not  bad  off  either.  S'pose  old  Thornton  could  give  her  a 
couple  o'  thousand  now,  and  mabby  three  thousand  more 


310  MR.   BLAZAY'S   EXPERIENCE. 

when  he  dies.  Not  bad,  if  a  feller  can  t  do  better.  But 
then  there  's  Laury  's  got  twenty  thousand  right  in  hand  ; 
that  'ud  kinder  set  a  feller  up  at  once,  —  no  waitin'  for  dead 
men's  shoes ;  an'  besides,  she  took  a  shine  to  me  'fore 
Susie  ever  did,  —  that  ought  to  be  taken  into  the  account ; 
and  I  somehow  think  she  'd  take  the  disappintment  o' 
losing  me  harder  'n  Susie  will ;  and  then  you  come  here, 
you  know,  to  court  Susie,  and  not  Laury.  So,  on  the 
hull,  if  it 's  the  same  thing  to  you,  'pears  to  me  it 's  'bout 
the  fair  thing  for  me  to  take  Lamy,  and  let  you  have  —  " 

At  this  instant  the  curtain  was  flung  aside.  Peleg 
stopped,  Peleg  stared,  Peleg  grimaced  and  whistled. 

''  Phew  !     Who  'd  'a'  thought  it !     Susie  !  " 


XIl. 


CONCLUSION. 

There  she  stood,  in  an  attitude  that  might  have  done 
credit  to  Rachel,  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  whole  form,  so  to 
speak,  scintillant  and  quivering  with  intensified  scorn. 

Peleg  stretched  himself  up,  plunged  his  hands  deep  into 
his  pockets,  screwed  ujd  first  one  side  of  his  face  and  then 
the  other,  and  repeated  his  astonished  whistle. 

"  Whew  !  Told  ye  so  ! "  squinting  at  me.  "  Awful 
scrape  !  perfectly  awful ! " 

"  Mr.  Green,"  said  I,  "  the  lady  desires  to  be  rid  of  your 
society.  I  am  waiting  to  see  her  very  reasonable  wishes 
complied  with." 

"  Don't  be  rolling  up  yer  sleeves  on  my  account !  don't 
spread  yerself  so  like  a  cat  a  falling  jest  for  me  !  Ruther 
cuess  I  'm  in  a  bad  fix,  and  had  better  back  rio-ht  straight 


MR.   BLAZAY'S  EXPERIENCE.  311 

out.  Ye  see,  Susie,  no  mortal  man  could  'a'  ca'c'lated  on 
Lauiy's  turning  up  a  widow  jest  as  I  had  hooked  myself  to 
you.  Now  I  ha'n't  the  least  thing  agin  you  in  the  world ; 
and  I  did  n't  mean  to  flunk  out  when  I  made  the  bargain. 
But  my  old  attachment  to  Laury,  ye  know ;  and  here  's 
Mr.  Blazay,  a  perfect  gentleman,  got  property,  likes  you  ; 
and  if  you  are  satisfied  with  the  swap  —  " 

She  stamped  her  foot  again,  her  eyes  darting  fire, 

"  Shall  I  hasten  his  departure  ?  "  I  suggested.  ''  Door  or 
window,  which  would  you  prefer  to  see  him  pass  out  ofl" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,  I  beg  of  ye ! "  said  Peleg. 
"  You  seem  to  understand  each  other,  and  I  'm  glad  on 't," 
scratching  his  chin.  "  We  '11  consider  it  settled,  if  you  've 
no  objections.  Hope  the  trade  '11  prove  satisfactory  all 
around.  Ruther  dull  morning,  Mr.  Blazay.  Look 's 
though 't  might  clear  up  and  be  fine  bimeby,  —  'bout  ten 
o'clock,  I  guess.  And  allow  me  to  say,  Mr.  Blazay,  if  I  've 
got  a  colt,  or  any  animil  you  happen  to  want,  I  shall  be 
most  happy  to  talk.  Waal,  any  time,  ye  know.  Good 
morning." 

Exit  Peleg. 

Susie  arranged  her  bonnet-strings  with  agitated  hands, 
and  was  hunying  away  in  haste  to  hide  her  anger  and  her 
shame,  when  I  held  out  my  arms  to  prevent  her  escape, 
arid  — 

"  Come  !  come  ! "  says  Mrs.  Blazay,  looking  over  my 
shoulder,  "  you  've  written  quite  enough  about  that  foolish 
affair  !     Besides,  I  want  you  to  take  the  baby." 

Susie's  word  is  law.     So  I  leave  my  story  here. 


PEEACHI]^G   FOE    SELAVTK 


I. 

MR.    JERVEY's    PARt    OF    THE   STORY. 

*'  ~r  AM  one  of  the  keepers  at  the  Asylum,  you  know. 

J-  "The  Asylum  stands  on  a  hill;  not  much  of  a 
hill,  either,  but  just  a  pretty  elevation  of  ground,  with  a 
noble  lawn  sloping  down  to  the  river-bank,  from  which  it 
is  separated  by  a  high  board  fence.  None  of  your  com- 
monplace fences,  understand,  such  as  seem  often  to  have 
no  other  use  than  just  to  spoil  a  landscape.  You-  would 
say  that,  as  a  general  thing,  a  fence  like  that  about  an 
estate  must  be  designed  for  keeping  people  out.  This, 
though,  was  meant  to  keep  people  in.  The  people,  in 
our  case,  are  the  inmates  of  the  Asylum.  "  And  Mr.  Jervey 
touched  his  forehead  significantly. 

"  There  was  a  wicket  in  the  fence,  that  opened  into  a 
boat-house,  that  opened  at  the  other  end  on  to  the  water. 
There  the  doctor  kej)t  his  boat,  in  which  we  gave  the 
patients  many  a  fine  row  and  sail.  For  he  was  one  of 
your  right-down  sensible,  kind-hearted  doctors;  none  of 
your  —  Well,  I  won't  draw  comparisons,  for  fear  I  may  be 
considered  wanting  in  respect  toward  his  very  worthy  suc- 
cessor. 

"He  —  I  mean  the  old  doctor  —  believed  in  the  whole- 
some influence  of  kindness  and  change  of  scene  and  mild 
recreation  on  his  patients.     So  he  was  always  thinking  of 


PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  313 

little  things  that  would  cheer  and  amuse  them.  Saturday- 
nights,  and  occasionally  at  other  times,  the  boat-house  was 
turned  into  a  bathing-house  for  a  certain  class  of  patients. 
Of  course  it  was  only  a  certain  class  that  could  be  trusted 
either  to  go  on  or  into  the  water.  '  It  always  has 
a  good  effect  to  trust  those  that  can  be  trusted,'  says 
the  doctor.  Then,  you  know,  the  boat  and  the  bath,  and 
all  such  things,  worked  weU,  held  out  as  rewards  for 
good  behavior. 

"  One  Sunday  morning,  a  new  patient  we  had  just  got  in 
complained  to  me  that  he  had  been  promised  a  swim  in 
the  river,  but  that  nothing  had  been  said  to  him  when  the 
others  went  in  the  night  before.  He  was  so  very  anxious 
for  his  bath  that  morning,  that  I  thought  't  would  do  no 
harm  to  lay  his  case  before  the  doctor. 

"  '  What  do  you  think  of  him,  Jervey  ? '  says  the  doctor. 

*' '  Very  quiet,  very  gentlemanly,'  says  I. 

"  '  Bring  him  to  me,'  says  the  doctor. 

"  So  I  went  and  brought  Mr.  Hillbright,  —  for  that  was 
the  man's  name,  —  and  introduced  him  with  the  little  for- 
mality usually  pleasing  to  that  kind  of  people. 

"  '  Mr.  Hillbright,  Doctor,'  says  I. 

'"Ah!  good  morning,  Mr.  HiUbright,'  says  the  doctor. 
'  How  are  you  this  morning  1 ' 

"  '  Very  well  indeed,  Doctor,  I  thank  you  kindly,'  says 
the  patient.  He  was  a  man  of  about  five-and-forty,  well 
dressed,  and  very  gentlemanly,  as  I  have  said ;  belonged  to 
a  good  family ;  rather  fleshy ;  a  little  bald  on  the  top  of 
his  head  ;  but  with  nothing  very  peculiar  in  his  appearance 
except  a  quick  way  of  speaking,  and  a  quick  way  of  drop- 
ping his  eyes  before  you  every  now  and  then.  'Very  well 
indeed.  Doctor,'  says  he  ;  '  only  the  sins  of  the  world  weigh 
upon  me  very  heavily,  as  you  are  aware.'  And  in  the  most 
solemn  manner  he  bowed  that  bald-topped  head  of  his  until 
u 


314  PREACHING  FOE   SELWYN. 

the  doctor,  where  he  sat,  could  have  reached  up  and  writ- 
ten his  name  on  it.     . 

"  '  0  yes,  I  know,'  says  the  doctor.  *  They  weigh  upon 
me  too.  But  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  burden  in  good  time, 
—  all  in  good  time,  Mr.  Hillbright.' 

"  That  was  the  doctor's  style  of  managing  patients  of 
this  sort.  It  did  no  good  to  contradict  them,  he  said,  but 
if  you  could  convince  one  that  his  case  was  n't  peculiar, 
that  others  had  had  similar  troubles  and  been  cured  of 
'em,  that  was  the  first  step  toward  bringing  him  around 
to  his  right  senses.  So,  if  one  complained  that  he  had  a 
devil,  the  doctor  would  very  likely  relate  to  him  in  confi- 
dence how  he  had  had  a  much  bigger  devil,  and  how  hs 
had  got  rid  of  him.  '  I  'm  in  hell !  I  'm  in  hell.  Doctor  ! ' 
says  a  woman  to  him.  '  I  don't  doubt  it ;  a  great  many 
people  are,'  says  the  doctor ;  '  I  have  been  there  myself 
And  that  would  usually  throw  cold  water  on  the  fire  sooner 
than  anything. 

"  Hillbright  was  quite  taken  aback  by  the  doctor's  candid 
admission  and  expression  of  sympathy  ;  for  I  suppose  he 
had  never  been  treated  with  anything  but  contradiction 
and  argument  till  he  came  to  us.  But  he  rallied  in  a 
minute  and  said,  glib  as  a  parrot,  'I  have  taken  the 
sins  of  the  world,'  says  he,  'and  I  must  bear  them  till 
I  am  permited  to  preach  and  convert  the  world.  Mean- 
while the  world  hates  me,  and  all  I  can  do  for  my  re- 
lief is  to  go  down  into  the  river  and  be  baptized.  I 
need  n't  explain  to  a  philosopher  like  you,'  says  he,  bow- 
ing again  to  the  doctor,  '  that  some  of  the  sins  wiH  wash 
off.' 

"The  doctor  approved  of  the  idea,  and  said  :  'Jervey,' 
says  he,  '  always  have  a  bath-tub  at  Mr.  Hillbright's  dis- 
posal.' 

'"A  bath-tub  1 '  says  Hillbright,  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  315 

amazement ;  '  the  sins  of  the  world  in  a  bath-tub  1     The 
ocean  would  n't  hold  them  ! ' 

" '  Jervey,'  says  the  doctor,  '  give  the  sins  of  the  world 
a  good  plunge  into  the  river  this  morning.' 

"  So  I  took  the  key  of  the  boat-house  and  went  down 
with  my  man  to  the  shore. 

'*  He  had  n't  been  long  in  the  water  when  he  made  an 
awful  discovery.  The  sins  wouldn't  wash  off  1  He  must 
have  soap,  and  there  was  only  one  sort  that  would  serve 
his  purpose.  He  said  I  would  find  a  cake  of  it  on  the  lit- 
tle table  in  his  room,  and  begged  me  to  go  and  get  it. 

"  I  did  n't  like  to  lose  sight  of  him  ;  but  the  doctor  had 
told  me  always  to  humor  his  patients  in  trifling  matters 
which  they  considered  important.  '  For  even  if  we  can't 
cure  'em,'  says  he,  '  we  can  at  least  make  'em  comfortable ' ; 
and  going  for  a  cake  of  soap  was  so  little  trouble,  and  be- 
sides, as  I  said,  Hillbright  was  such  a  quiet,  respectable, 
gentlemanly  person,  I  thought  him  safe,  especially  if  I 
kept  possession  of  his  clothes.  They  were  in  the  boat- 
house  locker,  where  I  always  kept  the  clothes  of  the  bath- 
ers ;  so  I  just  turned  the  key  on  'em  and  went  for  the 
soap,  leaving  Mr.  Hillbright  to  give  the  sins  of  the  world  a 
good  soaking  till  I  came  back. 

"  I  had  a  pretty  good  hunt,  finding  nothing  on  his  table 
but  a  small  pocket  Bible,  about  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
thing  I  expected  to  find,  but  not  the  thing  itself.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  in  a  minute,  though,  that  this  was  really 
what  the  man  wanted  ;  for  where  else  was  the  kind  of 
soap  that  would  wash  away  the  sins  of  the  world  1  I 
grinned  a  little  at  my  own  previous  simplicity,  but  deter- 
mined that  nobody  else  should  have  a  chance  to  grin  at 
it,  least  of  all  my  man  in  the  water ;  so  I  took  the  Bible, 
and  says  I  to  myself,  '  I  '11  hand  it  to  him  as  if  it  was 
actually  a  cake  of  soap,  and  I  had    understood  his  subtle 


316  PREACHING   FOR    SELWYN. 

meaning  from  the  first;  and  then  see  what  he  will  do 
with  it.' 

"  I  unlocked  the  little  door  in  the  fence,  and  entered  the 
boat-house,  and  was  immediately  struck  by  an  odd  look  it 
had,  as  if  something  strange  had  taken  place  in  my  absence. 
The  boat  —  yes,  that  was  it  —  the  boat  was  gone  !  I  ran 
along  the  narrow  side  of  the  platform  to  the  door  opening 
on  the  river,  and  looked  out,  —  about  as  anxiously  as  I 
ever  looked  out  of  a  door  in  my  life  :  there  was  the  river, 
running  smoothly,  and  looking  as  innocent  of  the  sins  of 
the  world,  and  the  morning  was  looking  as  still  and  lovely, 
as  any  river  or  any  Sunday  morning  that  ever  you  saw. 
But  there  was  no  boat  and  no  Hillbright  to  be  seen  ; 
boat,  Hillbright,  sins  of  the  world,  all  had  disappeared 
together. 

"  I  ran  back  to  the  locker,  and  found  the  man's  clothes 
all  right.  My  respectable,  gentlemanly  patient  had 
launched  himself  into  society  in  a  surprising  state  of 
nature,  —  a  thing  I  had  n't  for  a  moment  believed  him 
capable  of  doing,  he  was  always  so  very  distant,  I  may 
say  formal,  in  his  deportment.  "What  with  his  mystical 
cake  of  soap,  and  his  running  away  as  soon  as  I  was  out 
of  sight,  I  own  he  had  fooled  me  most  completely. 

"  Now,  I  lay  it  down- as  a  general  principle  that  nobody 
likes  to  be  taken  in,  even  by  a  man  in  his  senses.  Still 
less  do  you  fanc}^  that  sort  of  humiliation  from  a  man  out 
of  his  senses.  Then  put  the  case  of  a  person  in  my  posi- 
tion, —  a  keeper,  supposed  to  have  more  experience  and 
wit  in  deaUng  with  the  insane  than  you  outsiders  can  have, 
—  and  you  perceive  how  very  crushing  a  circumstance  it 
must  have  been  to  me. 

"  I  ran  like  a  deer  down  the  river-bank,  till  I  came  to 
the  bend,  around  which  I  felt  sure  of  getting  a  sight  of  the 
boat.      I  was  right  there ;  I  found  the  boat,  but  it  was 


PREACHI^^G  FOR   SELWYN.  317 

adrift,  and  going  down  with  the  current,  without  anybody 
aboard.  There  was  no  Hillbright  to  be  seen,  afloat  or 
ashore,  and  it  was  n't  possible  to  tell  which  way  he  had 
gone,  for  the  high  fence  had  concealed  his  movements,  and 
then  the  river-banks  below  were  fringed  with  trees  and 
bushes  on  both  sides.  So  all  I  could  do  was  to  hurry  back 
to  the  house,  give  the  alarm,  and  get  all  hands  out  on  the 
hunt  for  him,  that  fine  Sunday  morning." 
Thus  far  our  friend  Jervey. 


PARSON  DODD  AND  THE  BAY  MARE. 

Parson  Dodd  was  to  be  that  day  a  partner  in  a  triangu- 
lar exchange.  That  is,  Dodd  was  to  preach  for  Selwyn, 
Selwyn  was  to  preach  for  Burdick,  and  Burdick  was  to 
preach  for  Dodd. 

From  Dodd's  parish  at  Coldwater  to  Selwyn's  at  Long- 
trot  was  a  distance  of  some  fourteen  miles.  Just  a  nice 
little  Sunday  morning's  drive  in  fine  weather ;  and  one  to 
which  Dodd  looked  forward  with  interest,  for  two  or  three 
reasons. 

To  begin  with,  Dodd  was  a  bachelor  of  full  five-and- 
forty.  He  had  always  intended  to  marry,  but  being  one 
of  your  procrastinating  gentlemen,  who  make  it  a  rule  to 
put  off  until  to-morrow  w^hatever  they  are  not  absolutely 
compelled  to  do  to-day,  he  had,  with  other  things,  put  off 
matrimony.  He  had  even  paid  somewhat  marked  and 
prolonged  attentions  —  at  different  periods,  -of  course  —  to 
three  or  four  ladies,  each  of  whom  had  in  turn  been 
snatched  up  by  a  more  enterprising  suitor,  while  he  was 


318  PEEACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

slowly  making  up  his  mind  on  the  subject  of  a  proposal. 
Very  much  as  if  he  had  been  contemplating  a  fair  morsel 
on  his  fork,  expecting  in  due  time  to  swallow  it,  but  jn  no 
haste  to  do  so,  w^hen  some  puppy  had  rushed  in  and  swal- 
lowed it  for  him,  with  a  celerity  that  quite  took  the  good 
man's  breath  away. 

Not  that  Garcey  was  a  puppy,  by  any  means.  He  was 
a  brother  clergyman,  and  Selwyn's  predecessor  at  Long- 
trot  ;  and  there  was  a  time  when  he  liked  wonderfully 
well  to  come  over  and  preach  for  Dodd.  And  that  is  the 
way  he  became  connected  with  the  romance  of  Dodd's  life. 

To  the  last  of  the  estimable  ladies  alluded  to  —  namely, 
Miss  Melissa  Wortleby,  of  his  parish  —  Dodd  did  actually 
propose  matrimony,  after  taking  about  five  years  to  think 
of  it.  But  Miss  Wortleby  was  then  aghast  at  an  offer 
w^hich  would  have  made  her  the  happiest  of  women  three 
days  ago. 

"  Dear  me,  Mr.  Dodd  !  "  said  she.  "  Why  did  n't  you 
ever  tell  me,  if  you  had  such  a  thing  in  your  mind  1 " 

The  parson  stammered  out  that  a  serious  step  of  that 
nature  was  not  to  be  taken  in  haste.  "There's  always 
time  enough,  you  are  aware,  Miss  Wortleby." 

"Yes,"  said  poor  Miss  Wortleby,  with  a  look  of  distress; 
"  but  Mr.  Garcey  —  he  —  he  proposed  to  me  last  Sunday, 
and  I  —  " 

"  You  accepted  him  1 "  said  Parson  Dodd,  turning  pale 
at  this  unexpected  stroke. 

Miss  Wortleby's  tears  were  a  sufficient  confession. 

"  The  traitor  !  "  said  Parson  Dodd.  "  He  took  advan- 
tage of  our  exchange  to  offer  himself  to  you.  He  has  taken 
advantage  of  many  another  exchange,  I  suppose,  to  come 
over  and  cultivate  your  acquaintance.  Always  teasing  me 
for  an  exchange  —  the  vil  —  " 

"  No,  no,  dear  Mr.  Dodd  ! "  pleaded  Melissa  Wortleby, 


PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN.  319 

clasping  his  hands.  "  He  is  no  traitor  and  no  villain.  He 
had  no  idea,  any  more  than  I  had,  that  you  —  " 

"To  be  sure, "  said  Parson  Dodd,  resuming  that  serene 
behavior  and  those  just  sentiments  which  were  habitual 
with  him.  "  I  have  nobody  to  blame  but  myself,  dear 
Miss  Wortleby." 

Dodd  must  have  seen  that  he  was  really  the  young 
lady's  choice,  and  that  it  would  have  been  no  very  difficult 
task  to  prevail  upon  her  to  cancel  her  hasty  engagement 
with  Garcey.  But  we  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that 
if  he  was  given  to  procrastination  in  matters  of  right,  he 
was  still  more  slow  to  decide  upon  any  course  of  doubtful 
morality.  So  he  stepped  gracefully  aside,  and  gave  the 
pair  to  each  other  in  a  very  literal  sense,  himself  perform- 
ing the  wedding  ceremony. 

Garcey  was  settled,  as  I  said,  in  what  was  now  Selwyn's 
parish ;  there  he  lived  with  his  gentle  Melissa,  preached 
two  or  three  times  a  week  (exchanging  very  rarely  with 
Dodd  in  those  days,  however),  and  laid  the  foundations  of 
a  wide  reputation  and  a  large  family.  Then  he  died,  leav- 
ing to  his  afflicted  widow  a  barrel  of  sermons  and  six  chil- 
dren. 

Melissa  still  lived  at  the  parsonage  over  at  Longtrot, 
and  boarded  Selwyn,  the  young  theological  sprig,  lately 
slipped  from  the  academical  tree  and  planted  in  that  par- 
ish in  the  hope  that  he  might  take  root  there.  It  was 
even  whispered  that  he  was  likely  to  take  root  there  in  a 
double  sense,  succeeding  the  lamented  Garcey  not  only  in 
the  pulpit,  but  also  in  Mrs.  Garcey's  affections.  But  of 
course  there  was  no  truth  in  that  suspicion.  Parson  Dodd 
must  have  known  there  was  no  truth  in  it,  for  he  would 
have  been  the  last  man  to  serve  another  as  poor  Garcey 
had  served  him.  And  somehow  Dodd  liked  to  preach  for 
Selwyn. 


320  PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

To  be  quite  frank  about  the  matter,  Parson  Dodd  had 
hitely  awakened  one  morning  and  discovered  to  his  surprise 
the  marks  of  age  creeping  over  him.  His  crown  was  get- 
ting bald,  his  waistcoat  round,  his  hair  (what  there  was  of 
it)  silvery  (but  he  wore  a  wig),  his  frontal  ivory  golden. 
Until  yesterday  he  had  said  of  growing  old,  as  of  every- 
thing else,  "Time  enough  for  that."  But  however  man 
may  procrastinate,  the  old  fellow  w^ith  the  scythe  and  the 
forelock  is  always  about  his  work  ;  and  here  was  Dodd's 
field  of  life  more  than  half  mown  before  he  knew  it. 
"  Only  a  little  patch  of  withered  herbage  left !  "  thought 
he  with  consternation. 

Of  course  no  young  lady  would  think  of  having  him  now. 
He  might  have  deemed  his  case  hopeless,  but  there  was 
the  mother  of  Garcey's  innocents  !  I  '11  not  say  that  these 
living  monuments  to  the  memory  of  his  late  friend  were 
not  just  a  little  dampening  to  the  ardor  of  his  reviving 
attachment.  Of  all  the  ready-made  articles  with  which  the 
world  abounds,  one  of  the  least  desirable  is  a  ready  made 
family.  To  bear  with  easy  grace  a  weighty  domestic  re- 
sponsibility (and  a  wife  and  six  may  be  considered  such), 
one  should  begin  with  it  at  the  beginning,  like  the  man  in 
the  fable,  who,  by  shouldering  the  calf  daily,  came  at  last 
to  carry  the  ox.  But  to  commence  married  life  where 
another  man  has  left  off,  that  requires  courage.  But  Dodd 
was  a  man  of  courage  ;  one  of  those  who,  irresolute  and 
dilatory  in  ordinary  matters,  show  unexpected  pluck  in  the 
face  of  formidable  undertakings.  He  had  thought  of  all 
these  things.  And,  as  I  have  said,  he  liked  to  preach  for 
Selwyn. 

Usually,  when  he  had  that  privilege,  he  drove  over  to 
Longtrot  early  in  the  morning,  put  up  his  horse  at  the  par- 
sonage, and  had  a  good  hour  w^th  the  relict  of  the  lamented 
Garcey  before  the  ringing  of  the  second  bell.     An  hour 


PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  321 

spent  probably  in  Scriptural  readings  and  conversations,  or 
perhaps  in  drilling  the  little  Garceys  in  their  Sunday- 
school  lessons.  Whatever  the  pious  task,  his  heart  was 
evidently  in  it ;  for  it  was  always  noticeable  afterward 
when  he  walked  to  church  with  the  widow  and  her  little 
tmbe,  leading  the  youngest  between  them,  that  his  kind 
face  beamed  with  peculiar  satisfaction. 

But,, as  I  have  hinted,  there  was  cfther  cause  for  the 
interest  with  which  Parson  Dodd  looked  forward  to  this 
particular  Sunday  morning's  ride.  Shall  I  confess  it  1  The 
worthy  man,  having  no  family,  was  a  lover  of  animals,  espe- 
cially of  horses,  — more  especially  of  fine  horses.  He  had 
lately  exchanged  nags  (an  act  which  in  a  layman  is  termed 
"swapping")  and  got  a  bay  mare;  to  his  experienced  eye 
a  very  superior  beast  to  the  one  he  put  away.  He  had 
as  yet  had  no  opportunity  to  try  her  paces  for  more  than 
a  short  spirt ;  but  he  liked  the  way  she  carried  her  hoofs, 
and  he  believed  her  to  be  "  sound  and  true."  He  had  her 
of  a  townsman,  —  Colonel  Jakes, —  who,  though  something 
of  a  jockey,  was  never  known  actually  to  lie  about  a  horse  ; 
and  Colonel  Jakes  had  said,  as  he  turned  the  quid  in  his 
cheek,  and  squinted  with  a  professional  air  across  the 
mare's  fetlocks,  and  looked  candid  as  a  summer's  day, 
"  There  's  lots  of  travel  in  that  beast.  Parson.  You  see 
how  she  goes  off;  and  it's  my  experience  she  's  poorest  at 
the  start.  Yes,  Parson,  I  give  ye  my  word,  you'll  find 
that  creatur's  generally  poorest  at  the  start.  You  '11  say 
so  when  you  've  drove  her  a  little." 

It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  the  heart  of  Parson  Dodd 
was  happy  in  his  breast,  when  he  set  off,  at  half  past  seven 
o'clock,  alone  in  his  buggy,  driving  the  bay  mare,  to  go 
over  and  preach  for  Selwyn. 

He  was  very  carefully  dressed  in  his  dark  brown  wig, 
his  suit  of  handsome  blue-black   cloth,  and  ruffled  shirt- 
14* 


322  PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

bosom  of  snowy  whiteness,  which  distinguished  him  among 
clergymen  far  and  near.  "  Let  me  see  that  coat  and  that 
shirt-bosom  anywhere,  and  I  should  know  it  was  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Bean,  with  just  pride  in  her  washing  and  in  her  min- 
ister, that  very  morning.  "But,"  her  eye  resting  with 
some  surprise  on  his  neckcloth,  "where  did  you  git  that 
imbroidered  new  white  neck-handkerchief  1" 

"A  gift, — a  gift  from  a  lady,"  rephed  Parson  Dodd, 
evasively. 

He  was  not  quite  prepared  to  inform  her  that  his  ap- 
pearance in  it  foreboded  a  change  in  her  housekeeping. 
But  so  it  was.  In  the  note  that  came  with  it  a  few  days 
before,  Melissa  had  written  with  a  trembling  hand  :  "  I  em- 
broidered it  for  my  dear  husband.  Will  you  accept  and 
wear  it]"  Of  course,  these  simple,  pathetic  words  were 
not  in  any  way  designed  as  a  nudge  to  Dodd's  well-known 
procrastinating  disposition.  Yet  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
putting  on  the  neckcloth  that  morning  was  as  good  as 
tying  the  matrimonial  halter  under  his  chin. 

"  Wal,  I  don't  care,  it 's  perty  anyhow  ! "  said  Mrs.  Bean. 

So  Parson  Dodd  started  off,  wearing  the  fatal  neckcloth, 
and  driving  the  bay  mare.  Her  coat  was  glossy  as  silk ; 
the  air  was  exhilarating ;  the  birds  sang  sweetly  ;  she 
stepped  off  beautifully.  He  knew  Melissa  would  be  ex- 
pecting him,  and  he  was  happy. 

"  But  hold  on  ! "  said  he,  pulling  the  rein  all  at  once. 
"  Bless  me,  my  sermon  !  "  The  bay  mare  and  the  em- 
broidered neckcloth  had  quite  put  that  out  of  his  head. 
"  If  I  had  really  gone  without  it,  I  should  have  had  to 
overhaul  some  of  poor  Garcey's,"  thought  he,  as  he  wheeled 
about. 

He  wheeled  again  as  he  drove  up  to  the  gate,  and  called 
to  Mrs.  Bean  to  go  into  his  study  and  hand  him  down  his 
sermon-case,  which  she  would  find  lying  on  his  desk.     As 


PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN.  323 

she  reached  it  to  him  over  the  gate,  he  remarked,  ''You 
have  n't  seen  how  she  moves  off." 

"  No,  I  ha'n't,"  said  Mrs.  Bean. 

Parson  Dodd  tightened  the  reins,  —  those  electric  con- 
ductors through  which  every  born  driver  knows  how  to 
send  magnetic  intelligence,  the  soul  of  the  man  at  one 
end  inspiring  the  soul  of  the  horse  at  the  other.  And  Par- 
son Dodd  clucked  lightl}^  But  Queen  Bess  (that  was  the 
name  of  her)  did  not  move.  A  louder  cluck,  and  a  closer 
tension  of  the  quivering  ribbons.  Queen  Bess  merely  laid 
her  ears  back,  curled  down  her  tail  as  if  she  expected  a  blow, 
and  —  Dodd  could  see  by  the  sparkling  black  eye  turned 
back  at  him  —  looked  vicious. 

"  Go  'long  !  "  said  Parson  Dodd,  showing  the  w^hip. 

Queen  Bess  quietly  braced  herself.  She  was  evidently 
used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  prepared  for  a  struggle. 
Parson  Dodd  saw  the  situation  at  a  glance,  remembered 
the  jockey's  declaration  that  she  was  "generally  poorest 
at  the  start,"  and  blushed  to  the  apex  of  his  bald  crown. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  cried  sympathetic  Mrs. 
Bean. 

"  Him 's  balky,  that 's  what 's  the  matter,"  replied  the 
irritated  parson.  "  Go  'long,  Bess,  I  tell  you  ! "  And  he 
touched  her  shoulder  with  the  whip. 

The  touch  was  followed  by  a  sharp  cut ;  but  Bess  only 
cringed  her  tail  more  closely,  and  looked  wickeder  than 
ever.  Then  he  tried  coaxing.  All  to  no  purpose.  It  was 
a  dead  balk. 

Notwithstanding  his  burning  shame  at  having  been 
shaved  by  a  layman  who  "  paltered  with  him  in  a  double 
sense,"  and  his  wrath  at  the  perverse  brute,  and  his  irrita- 
tion at  Mrs.  Bean,  who  always  ivould  call  a  mare  a  him, 
Parson  Dodd  controlled  his  temper,  and  begged  the  lady's 
pardon,  but  told  her  she  had  better  go  into  the  house,  for 


324  PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN. 

it  might  be  her  presence  that  put  the  devil  into  the  brute 
(she  declares  that  he  said  "devil"),  then  got  out  of  the 
buggy,  went  to  the  animal's  head,  stroked  her,  patted  her, 
spoke  gently  to  her,  and  led  her  out  into  the  street. 

Then  he  once  more  got  up  into  his  seat.  But  Queen 
Bess  saw  through  the  transparent  artifice ;  she  had  taken 
serious  offence  at  the  indecision  shown  at  starting,  and 
now  she  refused  to  start  at  all  without  leading.  So  Par- 
son Dodd  got  out  again,  gave  her  another  start  with  his 
hand  on  the  bridle,  then  sprang  back  into  the  buggy,  at 
the  risk  of  his  limbs,  while  she  was  going.  "  I  wonder  if 
I  shall  have  to  start  in  this  way  when  I  leave  Melissa's  1 " 
thought  he,  and  wondered  what  people  would  say  to  see 
hini  with  a  balky  horse  ! 

He  let  her  go  her  own  gait  for  a  mile  or  two,  then,  by 
way  of  experiment,  stopped  her,  and  started  her  again. 
She  seemed  to  have  got  over  her  miff  by  this  time,  for  she 
went  off  readily  at  a  word.  Having  repeated  this  experi- 
ment two  or  three  times  with  encouraging  success,  (as  if 
the  cunning  creature  did  n't  know  perfectly  well  what  he 
was  up  to  !)  Parson  Dodd  began  to  think  he  had  n't  made 
such  a  fatally  bad  bargain  after  all.  "  "With  careful  man- 
agement, I  can  cure  her  of  that  trick,"  thought  he. 

When  he  had  made  about  ten  miles  of  the  journey,  he 
came  to  a  stream  where  it  was  his  custom  always  to  "  stop 
and  water  "  when  going  over  to  preach  for  Selwyn.  There 
was  then  an  easy  trot  of  four  miles  beyond,  which  he  thought 
well  for  a  horse  after  drinking  ;  and,  besides,  he  considered 
a  little  soaking  good  for  his  wheels  in  dry  weather. 

Parson  Dodd  got  out,  let  down  the  mare's  check-rein, 
got  into  the  buggy  again,  and,  turning  aside  from  the 
bridge,  drove  down  into  the  water,  purposing  to  drive 
through  it  and  up  the  opposite  bank,  country  fashion. 

In  mid-channel,  he  let  Queen  Bess  stop  and  drink.     She 


PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN.  325 

seemed  pretty  thirsty,  and  the  cautious  parson,  to  keep  her 
from  drinking  too  fast  and  too  much,  found  it  necessary  to 
pull  her  head  up  now  and  then.  This,  I  suppose,  vexed 
her ;  for  she  was  a  testy  creature,  and  could  not  bear  to 
be  trifled  with.  At  last  she  would  not  put  down  her  head, 
and,  when  requested  to  start,  she  would  not  start.  In 
short,  Queen  Bess  had  balked  again,  this  time  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stream. 

Parson  Dodd's  lips  tightened  across  his  teeth,  and  his 
knuckles  grew  white  about  his  whip-handle.  But  the  crin- 
ging tail  and  the  leering  eye  told  him  that  he  might  spare  his 
blows.     Madam  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  not  to  budge. 

The  parson  stood  up  and  reconnoitred.  The  stream  w^as 
thigh-deep,  and  it  was  a  couple  of  rods  to  either  shore. 
The  bridge  w^as  just  out  of  jumping  distance.  There  was 
no  help  within  call.  Parson  Dodd  looked  at  the  water, 
then  at  his  neatly  fitting  polished  boots,  rufiied  shirt-bosom, 
and  blue-black  suit,  grinned,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  Queen  Bess,"  said  he,  "  you  think  you  've  got  me  now. 
It  does  look  so.  How  long  do  you  intend  to  keep  me  here  *? 
Take  your  own  time,  madam  !  But  mind,  you  make  up 
for  this  delay  when  you  do  start." 

It  was  difficult,  however,  for  a  person  of  even  so  equita- 
ble a  temper  as  his  own  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience  very 
long  under  the  circumstances.  Suppose  Queen  Bess  should 
conclude  not  to  start  at  all  that  forenoon  ?  What  woul  I 
Melissa  think  1     And  who  would  preach  for  Selwyn  ] 

There  was  another  consideration.  Queen  Bess  had  had 
her  fill  of  cold  water  when  she  was  warm,  —  a  dangerous 
thing  for  a  horse  that  has  been  driven,  and  that  is  not  kept 
in  exercise  afterward.  Before  many  minutes,  Dodd  had  no 
doubt  she  would  be  fatally  foundered ;  though  he  did  not 
know  but  the  cold  water  about  her  feet  might  do  some- 
thing toward  keeping  the  fever  from  settling  in  them. 


326  PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN. 

"  This,  then,  is  the  creatur'  that 's  usually  poorest  at 
starting  !  I  should  say  so  !  "  thought  he.  "  I  wish  Colonel 
Jakes  was  lashed  to  her  back,  like  another  Mazeppa,  and 
that  I  had  the  starting  of  her  then ;  I  'd  be  willing  to 
sacrifice  the  mare.  Come,  come,  Bess  !  good  Queen  Bess  ! 
Will  you  go 'long  r' 

She  would  not,  of  course. 

Parson  Dodd  looked  wistfully  at  both  banks  again,  and 
at  the  inaccessible  bridge,  and  at  the  hub-deep  water,  and 
said,  grimly,  after  a  moment's  profound  meditation,  — 
"  There  's  only  one  way  ;  I  must  get  out  and  lead  her  !  " 

It  is  said  that  the  brains  of  drowning  men  are  lighted 
at  the  supreme  moment  by  a  thousand  vivid  reflections. 
Parson  Dodd  experienced  something  of  this  phenomenon, 
even  before  he  got  into  the  water.  He  saw  himself  preach- 
ing for  Selwyn  in  unpresentable,  drenched  garments,  —  he, 
the  well-dressed,  immaculate  bachelor  parson ;  or  beg- 
ging a  change  of  the  widow,  and  exciting  great  scandal  in 
the  congregation  by  entering  the  pulpit  in  a  well-known 
suit  of  Garcey's,  ("'T  will  be  said  I  might  at  least  have  let 
his  clothes  alone  until  after  I  had  married  into  them  ! ") 
or  waiting  to  be  found  where  he  was,  at  the  mercy  of  a 
vicious  mare,  by  the  first  church-going  teams  that  came 
that  way.  Would  he  ever  take  pride  in  driving  a  neat 
nag,  or  care  to  preach  for  Selwyn,  after  either  of  these  con- 
tingencies 1 

"  I  '11  pull  off  my  boots  anyway  ;  yes,  and  my  coat ; 
there  's  no  use  of  wetting  that."  He  stood  up  on  his 
buggy-seat  and  looked  anxiously  both  up  and  down  the 
road,  and,  seeing  no  one,  said,  "  I  may  as  well  save  my 
pantaloons."  Then  why  not  his  linen  and  underclothes] 
"  The  bath  won't  hurt  me.  Why  did  n't  I  think  of  this 
before  1 "  said  he,  pulling  up  the  buggy-top  for  a  screen. 

He  began  with  his  embroidered  white  neckcloth,  which 


PREACHING  FOE  SELWYN.  327 

he  took  off  and  placed  in  his  hat,  along  with  his  watch, 
and  pocket-book,  and  sermon,  saying,  at  the  same  time, 
^'  Some  leisure  day.  Queen  Bess,  you  and  I  are  going  to 
have  a  settlement.  Lucky  for  you  this  is  n't  a  very  favor- 
able time  for  it.  I  '11  break  yDur  temper,  or  I  '11  break 
your  neck ! " 

Thus  talking  to  the  shrew,  and  quoting  exemplary 
Petruchio,  he  packed  his  clothes  carefully  in  the  wagon- 
bottom,  and  then  —  laughing  at  the  ludicrousness  of  the 
situation,  in  spite  of  himself — stepped  cautiously  down 
into  the  water. 

''Aha!"  said  he,  at  the  first  chill:  "I  must  give  my 
head  a  plunge,  or  the  blood  will  rush  into  it."  So  he  took 
off  his  wig  and  laid  it  in  his  hat.  Then  he  ducked  him- 
self once  or  twice.  Then  he  waded  to  the  mare's  head, 
took  her  gently  by  the  bridle  and  led  her  out. 

In  going  up  the  oozy  bank  from  the  water's  edge,  the 
animal's  plashing  hoofs  bespattered  him  with,  mud  from 
head  to  foot.  He  therefore  left  her  on  the  roadside,  and, 
taking  his  handkerchief,  ran  back  to  wash  and  dry  himself 
a  little  before  putting  on  his  clothes. 

He  had  cleansed  himself  of  the  mud,  and  was  standing 
on  a  log  beside  the  bridge,  making  industrious  use  of  his 
handkerchief,  when  he  thought  he  heard  a  wagon.  Fear- 
ing to  be  caught  in  that  most  unclerical  condition,  without 
even  his  wig,  he  looked  up  hastily  over  the  bridge.  There 
was  no  wagon  coming,  but  there  was  one  going.  It  was 
his  own.  Queen  Bess,  was  deliberately  walking  away  ;  for 
there  was  a  nice  sense  of  justice  in  that  mare,  and  having 
refused  to  start  when  he  wanted  her  to,  it  was  meet  that 
she  should  balance  that  fault  by  starting  when  he  did  not 
want  her  to.     Poor  Dodd  had  not  thought  of  that. 

Taken  quite  by  surprise,  and  appalled  by  the  horrible 
possibility  that  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  he  immedi- 


328  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

ately  started  in  pursuit.  Bess  had  been  either  too  obsti- 
nate or  too  mad  to  be  frightened  at  the  apparition  of  him 
in  the  water,  deeming  it  perhaps  a  device  to  make  her  ''go 
'long."  But  now  a  glimpse  of  the  unfamiUar  white  object 
flashing  after  her  was  enough,  and  away  she  went. 

"  Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,"  Dodd  !  Bemember  that 
your  clothes  are  in  the  buggy;  and  think  not  of  the  stones 
that  bruise  your  feet.  '  Ah  !  what  a  race  !  But  it  is  un- 
equal, and  it  is  brief.  The  rascally  jockey  said  too  truly, 
"  There 's  lots  of  travel  in  that  beast,  Parson  !  "  The 
faster  Dodd  runs,  the  more  frightened  is  she ;  and  since 
he  failed  at  the  first  dash  to  grasp  the  flying  vehicle,  there 
is  no  hope  for  him.  He  has  lost  his  breath  utterly  before 
she  has  fairly  begun  to  run.  He  sees  that  he  may  as  well 
stop,  and  he  stops.  Broken-winded,  asthmatic,  gasping, 
despairing,  he  stands,  a  statue  of  distress  (or  very  much 
like  a  statue,  indeed),  on  the  roadside,  and  watches  horse 
and  buggy  disappearing  in  the  distance.  Was  ever  re- 
spectable, middle-aged,  slightly  corpulent,  slightly  bald 
country  parson  in  just  such  a  predicament  1 

Melissa  would  certainly  look  in  vain  for  his  coming,  that 
sweet  Sunday  morning.  And  who  —  who  would  preach  for 
Selwyn  ] 


III. 

PARSON  DODD'S  SUNDAY-MORNING  CALL. 

The  mere  loss  of  horse  and  buggy  was  nothing.  But  0, 
his  clothes  !  Parson  Dodd  even  hoped  to  see  the  vehicle 
upset  or  smashed,  and  his  garments,  or  at  least  some  por- 
tion of  them,  flung  out  on  the  roadside.  But  nothing  of 
the  kind  occurred,  as  far  as  he  could  see.     Of  all  his  fine 


PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  329 

wardrobe,  he  had  only  a   handkerchief,  —  and  what  is  a 
handkerchief  on  such  an  occasion  1 

Talk  of  a  drowning  man's  fancies  !  No  thrice-drowned 
wretch  ever  suffered  anj^thing  comparable  to  Parson 
Dodd's  wild,  swift-flashing  thoughts,  during  the  brief 
moments  he  stood  there.  He  imagined  the  assembling  of 
the  congregation  ;  the  waiting  and  wondering ;  the  arrival 
perhaps  of  his  punctual  clothes  and  sermon,  for  they  had 
gone  straight  forward  on  the  road  to  the  parish  ;  then  the 
alarm,  and  the  whole  country  roused  to  search  for  him. 

But  there  was  one  subject  demanding  his  immediate  at- 
tention, —  something  must  be  done ;  and  what  1  He 
could  go  to  the  nearest  house  and  ask  for  clothes,  if  he 
had  any  clothes  to  go  in  !  He  was  reminded  of  the  theo- 
logical paradox,  restated  in  the  very  sermon  he  was  to 
have  preached  that  morning,  namely,  that,  in  order  to 
pray  for  grace,  we  must  have  grace  to  pray.  He  had  wished 
for  a  good,  practical  illustration  of  his  view  of  that  diffi- 
culty, and  now  he  had  it.  Impossible,  without  clothes,  to 
ask  for  clothes  !  Such  whimsical  fancies  will  sometimes 
flit  lightly  across  the  mind,  even  in  moments  of  great  dis- 
tress. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  lie  in  the  neighbor- 
ing woods  all  day,  and  then  set  out  for  home,  ten  miles 
oflf,  under  cover  of  the  night.  But  the  hardships  of  such 
a  course,  —  twelve  hours  of  nakedness,  weariness,  fam- 
ine, —  were  too  appalling.  No ;  something  desperate 
must  be  done.  "  I  must  make  a  raid  for  covering  of  some 
kind  !  "  thought  the  unhappy  parson. 

There  was  a  little  low,  red-painted  dwelling-house  in 
sight,  standing  well  back  from  the  road,  with  a  broad  wood- 
shed behind  it,  and  a  brown  barn  behind  that.  It  was 
flanked  by  a  field  of  waving  rye,  —  a  providential  circum- 
stance, the  good  man  thought ;  it  would  serve  to  cover  his 


330  PREACHING  FOR  SELWYX. 

approach.  "  I  can  stand  in  the  rye  up  to  my  neck,  while 
I  call  for  help,  and  explain  my  situation."  So  he  advanced, 
wading  through  the  high,  nodding  grain,  which  his  hands 
parted  before  him  :  a  wretched  being,  but  hopeful ;  and 
with  light  fancies  still  bubbling  on  the  current  of  his  darker 
reflections. 

^'Gin  a  body  meet  a  body  coming  through  the  rye," 
thought  he. 

A  Sunday-morning  stillness  pervaded  farm  and  dwelling. 
A  quail  whistled  on  the  edge  of  the  field,  ^' More  wet! 
more  wet  ! "  which  sounded  to  Parson  Dodd  much  like  a 
mocking  allusion  to  his  own  recent  passage  of  the  river. 
Glossy  swallows  were  twittering  about  the  eaves  of  the  barn ; 
and  enviable  doves,  happy  in  their  feathers,  were  cooing 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  old  shed-roof 

In  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  perfect  rural  tranquillity, 
the  barn  door  was  opened.  The  parson's  heart  beat  fast ; 
somebody  was  leading  out  a  horse.     It  was  a  woman  ! 

A  woman  with  a  masculine  straw  hat  on  her  head.  She 
ivas  followed  by  another  woman,  also  in  a  straw  hat, 
bringing  a  horse-collar.  Then  came  a  third  woman,  simi- 
larly covered,  carrying  a  harness.  The  horse's  halter  and 
afterward  his  head  were  passed  through  the  collar,  which 
was  then  turned  over  on  his  neck  and  pressed  back  against 
his  breast ;  the  harness  was  put  on  and  buckled  ;  and  then, 
—  horrible  to  tell !  —  a  fourth  straw-hatted  woman  ap- 
peared, and  held  up  the  shafts  of  an  old  one-horse  wagon, 
while  the  other  three  backed  the  animal  into  them,  and 
hooked  the  traces. 

"  My  luck  !  "  said  the  parson,  through  teeth  chattering 
with  excitement,  if  not  with  cold.  "  Not  a  man  on  the 
place  !  All  women  !  And  there 's  another  somewhere. 
"VVhy  did  n't  I  think  1  It  's  the  house  of  the  Five  Sis- 
ters ! " 


TREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  331 

The  five  Misses  Wiretop,  spinsters,  known  to  all  the 
country  'round  about.  They  were  rather  strong-minded, 
and  very  strong-bodied ;  they  kept  this  house,  and  wore 
straw  hats,  and  tilled  their  few  ancestral  acres,  and  dis- 
pensed with  man's  assistance  (except  occasional  aid  in 
seed-time  and  harvest),  and  went  regularly  to  church,  and 
were  very  respectable. 

"  They  are  getting  ready  for  church  now,"  thought  Parson 
Dodd.  "  They  go  to  Selwyn's.  I  alvvays  see  them  there. 
They  are  going  to  hear  me  preach  !  " 

No  doubt  they  would  have  been  glad  to  do  anything  for 
him  that  lay  in  their  power;  for  though  they  did  not 
think  much  of  men  generally,  they  had  a  regard  for  par- 
sons, and  for  Parson  Dodd  in  particular  ;  he  knew  that 
from  the  serious,  reverential  glances  turned  up  at  him  ever 
from  the  Five  Sisters'  pew.  "  Yet  it  is  n't  myself  they 
care  for,"  thought  he,  "  it's  my  cloth."  And  here  he  was 
without  his  cloth  1 

He  asked  himself,  moreover,  what  they  could  do  for  him, 
even  if  he  should  make  his  wants  known  to  them.  Of 
course  there  were  no  male  garments  in  their  house  ;  and 
the  most  he  could  expect  of  them  was  an  old  lady's  gown. 
He  fancied  himself  in  that ! 

He  reasoned,  however,  that  these  sisters  and  their  horse 
might  help  him  to  recover  his  garments  and  his  mare. 
So  he  advanced  still  nearer,  and  was  about  calling  out  to 
them  over  the  top  of  the  grain,  when  the  Sabbath  still- 
ness was  broken  by  a  sharp  voice,  — 

"  Stop,  you  sir  !     Stop,  there  !  " 

He  did  stop,  as  if  he  had  been  shot  at.  Turning  his 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  he  saw  the  fifth  sister, 
with  one  sleeve  of  her  Sunday  gown  on,  and  with  one 
naked  arm,  leaning  her  head  out  of  a  chamber  window, 
and  gesticulating  violently. 


332  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

"  Git  out  o'  that  n-e  !  git  out  o'  that  rye  !  right  straight 
out  !     Do  you  hear,  you  sir  1     Do  you  hear  1 " 

ParsoD  Dodd  must  have  been  deaf  not  to  have  heard. 
But  how  could  he  obey"?  Instead  of  getting  out  of  the 
rye,  he  crouched  down  in  it  until  only  the  shining  top  of  his 
bald  crown  was  visible,  like  a  saucer  turned  up  in  the  sun. 

"  Madam  !  "  be  shouted  back,  "  I  beg  of  you  —  " 

But  the  sharp  voice  interrupted  him  :  "  Don't  you  know 
no  better  1  Can't  a  poor  woman  raise  her  little  patch  of 
r}^e,  but  some  creatur'  must  come  tramp,  tramp  through 
it  1  Don't  you  know  what  a  path  is  for  1  There 's  the 
lane  ;  why  did  n't  you  come  up  the  lane  ?  " 

Poor  Dodd  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  explain 
why.  But  now  rose  a  clamor  of  female  voices,  as  the  four 
sisters  at  the  barn  ran  down  to  the  end  of  the  house,  be- 
tween it  and  the  field,  to  learn  what  was  the  matter. 

"  In  the  rye !  "  said  the  sister  at  the  window,  pointing. 
"  Some  creatur'  try  in'  to  hide,  —  don't  ye  see  him  1  Looks 
like  a  man.  What  ye  want  1  Why  don't  ye  come  out  1 
Scroochin'  down  there  !     Who  be  ye,  anyhow  ? " 

"  Ladies,"  said  poor  Dodd,  putting  up  his  chin  timidly, 
and  looking  over  the  grain  with  a  very  piteous  expression, 
"  don't  you  know  me  1 " 

But  that  was  a  very  absurd  question.  Certainly  they 
did  not  know  him  without  his  wig.  Where  were  those 
wavy  brown  locks,  which  looked  so  interesting  in  the 
preacher's  desk,  especially  to  the  female  portion  of  his  con- 
gregation 1  Could  any  one  be  expected  to  recognize  in 
that  shorn  and  polished  pate  the  noble  head  and  front  of 
the  bachelor  parson  1     No,  he  must  proclaim  himself. 

"  Ladies  !  good  friends  !  don't  be  alarmed,  I  entreat.  I 
have  met  with  a  —  " 

He  was  going  to  say  misfortune.  But  just  then  he  met 
with  something  else,  which  interrupted  him. 


c  «  a  •        • 


PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  666 

The  Five  Sisters  kept,  as  a  protection  to  their  loneliness, 
a  very  large  dog.  One  of  them,  learning  that  there  was  a 
creatur''  in  the  rye,  had,  before  learning  what  that  creatu?'' 
was,  whistled  for  Bruce.  Bruce  had  come.  He  perceived 
a  rustling,  or  caught  a  gleam  of  the  inverted  saucer,  and 
made  a  dash  at  the  field,  leaping  upon  the  dilapidated  boun- 
dary-wall. His  deafening  yelps  from  that  moment  drowned 
every  other  sound.  He  could  n't  be  called  off  even  by  her 
who  had  set  him  on.  Terror  at  the  sight  of  a  naked  man 
(few  sights  are  more  terrifying  to  an  unsophisticated  dog) 
rendered  him  wholly  wild  and  unmanageable.  There  he 
stood  on  the  wall,  formidable,  bristling  with  rage  and 
fright,  and  intercepting  every  word  of  the  poor,  gasping 
wretch  in  the  grain  with  his  furious  barking. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  Dodd  was  about  as  badly 
frightened  as  the  dog.  He  crouched,  shrank  away,  and 
finally  retreated,  the  brute  howling  and  yelping  after 
him,  and  the  exasperated  spinsters  screaming  to  him  to 
take  the  path,  and  not  trample  down  the  rye,  —  did  n't  he 
know  what  a  path  was  for  1 

So  ended  Parson  Dodd's  Sunday-morning  call  on  the 
Five  Sisters. 


IV. 

MR.    HILLBRIGHT    SETS    OFF    ON    HIS    MISSION. 

When  Mr.  Hillbright  sent  our  friend  Jervey  for  the 
mythical  soap,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  he  contem- 
plated escaping  from  the  Asylum.  I  think,  if  we  could 
hear  Hillbright' s  part  of  the  story,  it  would  be  something 
like  this  :  — 

He  had  detected  the  turning  of  the  key  in  the  boat-house 


334  PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

locker,  and,  hastening  to  it  the  moment  Jervey  was  gone, 
had  found  that  his  clothes  were  locked  up.  What  was  that 
for*?  To  prevent  him  from  putting  them  on,  of  course, 
and  walking  off  in  his  keeper's  absence. 

"  They  fear  I  will  walk  off,  do  they  ]  Then  I  will  walk 
off!" 

Such,  very  probably,  was  his  brief  train  of  reasoning  ; 
and  such,  very  certainly,  the  conclusion  arrived  at.  Should 
the  trifling  want  of  a  few  rags  of  clothing  stand  in  the  way 
of  a  great  resolution  1  Should  he  who  bore  the  sins  of  the 
world,  and  whose  duty  it  was  to  go  forth  and  preach  and 
convert  the  world,  neglect  such  an  opening  as  this  to  get 
out  and  fulfil  his  mission  ] 

"  Providence  will  clothe  me  !  "  And,  indeed,  it  looked 
as  if  Providence  meant  to  do  something  of  the  kind.  "  Be- 
hold ! "  There  was  a  long  piece  of  carpet,  very  ancient 
and  faded,  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat ;  he  pulled  it  up, 
wrapped  it  fantastically  about  him,  and  was  clad. 

He  then  pushed  the  boat  out  into  the  river,  giving  it  an 
impulse  which  sent  it  across  to  the  opposite  shore.  Then 
he  leaped  out,  leaving  it  adrift  on  the  current.  When  Mr. 
Jervey  found  it  below  the  bend,  Mr.  Hillbright  was  already 
walking,  with  great  dignit}^,  in  his  improvised  blanket, 
across  the  skirts  of  a  neighboring  woodland,  like  a  sachem 
in  his  native  wilds. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  began  to  experience  great 
tenderness  in  the  soles  of  his  feet.  Then  by  degrees  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  the  loose  ends  of  the  carpet  flapping 
about  his  calves  were  but  a  poor  substitute  for  trousers  ; 
and  that  his  attire  was,  on  the  whole,  imperfect.  "  Too 
simple  for  the  age,"  thought  he.  Picturesque,  but  hardly 
the  thing  in  which  to  appear  and  proclaim  his  mission  to 
a  fastidious  modern  societ}^  Would  the  world,  that  re- 
fused to  tolerate  him  dressed  as  a  gentleman,  accept  him 


PREACHING  FOE  SELWYN.  325 

now  that  he  was  rigged  out  more  like  a  king  of  the  Canni- 
bal Islands  1 

He  tried  various  methods  of  wreathing  the  folds  of  an- 
tique tapestry  about  his  person  ;  all  of  which  seemed  open 
to  criticism.  He  was  beginning  to  think  Providence  might 
have  done  better  by  him,  when,  getting  over  a  fence,  he 
found  himself  on  the  public  highway. 

He  knew  he  would  be  followed  by  his  friends  at  the 
Asylum ;  and  here  he  accordingly  stopped  to  take  an  ob- 
servation. He  was  ne'ar  the  summit  of  a  long  hill.  At  the 
foot  of  it,  near  half  a  mile  off,  he  saw  a  horse  coming  at  a 
fast  gallop,  which  to  his  suspicious  mind  suggested  pursuit, 
and  he  shrank  back  into  some  bushes  to  remain  concealed 
while  it  passed. 

As  the  animal  ascended  the  slope,  the  gallop  relaxed  to 
a  leisurely  canter,  the  canter  declined  to  a  trot,  and,  long 
before  the  summit  was  attained,  the  trot  had  become  a 
walk.  The  horse  had  no  rider,  but  there  was  a  buggy  at 
its  heels.  Arrived  near  the  spot  where  Hillbright  was  hid, 
it  turned  up  on  the  roadside,  and  put  down  its  head  to  nip 
grass.  Then  Hillbright  saw  that  there  was  nobody  in  the 
buggy.  The  horse  was  a  runaway,  that  had  been  stopped 
by  the  long  stretch  of  rising  ground.  The  horse,  I  may 
as  well  add,  w^as  a  bay  mare. 

"  Providence  is  all  right,"  said  Hillbright,  emerging  from 
the  bushes.     "  This  is  for  my  sore  feet." 

At  sight  of  the  strange  figure,  grotesque  in  faded  scroll 
patterns  of  flowing  tapestry,  the  mare  shied,  and  would 
have  got  away,  but  a  two-mile  course,  with  a  hill  at  the 
end  of  it,  had  tamed  her  spirit.  So  she  merely  sprang  to 
a  corner  of  the  fence,  and  remained  an  easy  capture. 

As  Hillbright  was  about  setting  foot  into  the  vehicle,  — 
for  he  had  no  doubt  of  its  having  been  sent  expressly  that 
he  might  ride,  —  he  found  an  odd  heap  of  things  in  his 


336  PREACHING  FOE   SELWYN. 

way.  There  was  something  that  looked  hke  suspenders ; 
and,  following  up  that  interesting  clew,  he  drew  forth  a 
pair  of  patitaloons  ;  with  them  came  a  coat  and  waistcoat, 
all  of  handsome  blue-black  cloth.  "  Providence  means  that 
I  shall  be  well  clothed,"  was  his  happy  reflection,  as,  ex- 
ploring still  farther,  he  discovered  boots  and  underclothes, 
and  a  shirt  of  fine  linen,  with  a  wonderfully  refulgent  ruffled 
bosom.  With  a  triumphant  smile,  he  proceeded  to  put 
the  things  on,  and  found  them  an  excellent  fit. 

There  was  still  a  hat  left,  freighted  and  ballasted  with 
various  valuables,  uppermost  among  which  was  a  luxuriant 
chestnut-brown  wig.  Now-,  Hillbright  had  never  worn  a 
wig.  But  since  he  had  borne  the  sins  of  the  world,  the 
top  of  his  head  had  become  bare,  and  was  not  here  a  plain 
indication  that  it  ought  to  be  covered  ]  He  accepted  the 
augury,  and  put  on  the  wig. 

Next  came  a  richly  embroidered  white  neckerchief,  for 
which  he  also  found  its  appropriate  use.  Then  in  the 
bottom  of  the  hat  remained  a  gold  watch,  which  he  cheer- 
fully put  into  his  fob ;  a  plump  porte-monnaie  which  he 
pocketed  with  a  smile ;  and  a  thin  package  of  manuscripts 
betwixt  dainty  morocco  covers,  which,  untying  its  neat 
pink  ribbons,  he  proceeded  to  examine. 

The  miracle  was  complete.  The  package  was  a  ser- 
mon. 

"  This  is  all  direct  from  Heaven  !  "  said  Hillbright,  de- 
lighted, and  having  no  more  doubt  of  the  truth  of  his 
surmise  than  if  he  had  seen  the  buggy  and  its  contents  let 
down  in  a  golden  cloud  from  the  sky. 

Thinking  to  find  room  for  the  package  in  the  broad 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  he  discovered  an  obstacle,  which 
he  removed.  It  proved  to  be  a  little  oval  pocket-min-or. 
He  held  it  up  before  him,  and  had  reason  to  be  pleased 
with  the  flattering  account  it  gave  of  himself     The  grace- 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  337 

fill  wig,  embroidered  white  cravat,  ruffled  shirt-bosom,  and 
blue-black  suit  became  him  wonderfully  well ;  they  made 
a  new  man  of  him.  Had  he  known  Dodd  of  Coldwater,  he 
would  almost  have  taken  himself  for  that  well-got-up  bach- 
elor parson. 

Then  for  the  hat,  which  was  a  stylish  black  beaver, 
somewhat  the  worse  for  its  ride  ;  giving  it  a  little  needful 
polishing  before  putting  it  on,  he  noticed  a  letter  protrud- 
ing from  the  lining.     He  opened  it  and  read  :  — 

"  Reverend  and  dear  Sir :  —  We  have  made  all  the  arrange- 
ments. The  Ex.  is  all  right.  You  preach  fur  Selwyn  at 
Longtrot^  on  Sundag,  the  1th.  "A  ^." 

This  seemed  plain  enough  to  the  gratified  Hillbright. 
"  We  "  he  understood  to  mean  his  unseen  friendly  guar- 
dians. The  "  arrangements "  they  had  made  were,  so  far 
as  he  could  see,  excellent;  he  was  provided  with  every- 
thing !  The  "  Ex."  undoubtedly  alluded  to  his  exit  from 
the  Asylum  ;  and  that  was  certainly  "  all  right."  To-day 
was  Sunday,  the  7th ;  and  here  was  his  work  all  laid 
out  for  him.  Who  Selwyn  was,  and  where  Longtrot  was, 
he  did  not  know  ;  but  doubtless  it  would  be  revealed. 

The  signature  of  the  missive  puzzled  him  at  first  ;  but 
soon  a  happy  interpretation  occurred  to  him.  It  was 
evidently  no  signature  at  all,  but  an  injunction.  "  B.  B." 
stood  for  "  Be  !     Be  !  "  and  it  signified,  "  Be  a  man  !     Be 

A  GREAT  MAN  !       Be  THYSELF  !       BE    HILLBRIGHT  !  " 

Yet  wdien  he  came  to  scrutinize  the  address  of  the  letter, 
he  perceived  that  the  name  of  Hillbright,  against  which 
the  world  had  conceived  an  unreasonable  prejudice,  was  to 
be  dropped  for  a  season.  "  It  appears,"  said  he,  "  I  am  to 
be  known  as  Dodd,  —  E.  Dodd,  —  Rev.  E.  Dodd.  I  don't 
see  what  the  E.  stands  for.  I  wonder  what  my  first 
name  is  % " 

15  V 


338  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

So  saying,  he  stepped  into  the  buggy,  gathered  up  the 
reins  from  the  dasher,  put  under  his  feet  the  carpet  that 
was  lately  on  his  back,  and  set  off  grandly  on  his  grand 
mission. 

The  bay  mare  was  herself  again ;  she  did  not  balk. 


JAKES    IN    PURSUIT. 

Among  the  officers  sent  out  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive 
from  the  Asylum  was  the  superintendent  of  the  Asylum 
farm,  a  stout,  red-faced  man,  named  Jakes,  —  a  brother, 
by  the  way,  of  our  friend  Colonel  Jakes  of  Coldwater. 
He  took  with  him  an  Irish  laborer  named  Collins,  also  a 
strong  rope  with  which  to  bind,  and  a  coarse  farmers  suit 
with  which  to  clothe,  the  madman  when  caught. 

The  superintendent  and  his  man  put  a  horse  before  a 
light  carryall,  and  had  a  fine  time  driving  about  on  the 
pleasant  country  roads,  while  others  of  the  pursuing  party 
scoured  fields  and  woods  on  foot.  At  last  they  struck  the 
Longtrot  road,  and  turned  off  toward  Coldwater. 

They  had  not  driven  far  in  that  direction  before  they 
saw  a  man  coming  in  a  buggy. 

"A  minister,  ye  may  know  by  his  white  choker,"  ob- 
served Collins. 

"  You  're  right,  Patrick,"  said  Jakes,  "  and  I  vow,  I 
believe  I  know  who  he  is  !  I  know  that  bay  mare, 
anyhow.  She  's  a  brute  my  brother  over  in  Coldwater  got 
shaved  on  by  a  travelling  jockey  ;  and  he  told  me  last 
week,  with  a  grin  on  one  side  of  his  face,  he  had  put  her 
off  on  the  minister.     I  bet  my  head  that  's  Parson  Dodd  ! 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  339 

Good  morning,  sir ;  beg  pardon  ! "  And  Superintendent 
Jakes  reined  up  on  the  roadside.  "  Have  you  seen  —  have 
you  met  —  hold  on,  if  you  please,  sir  —  a  minute  ! " 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  stranger  stopped  his  horse. 
Superintendent  Jakes  thought  that  face  was  somehow- 
familiar,  and  so  thought  Collins.  In  fact,  they  had  seen 
it  more  than  once  about  the  Asylum  grounds,  within  a 
few  days,  as  the  owner  of  the  said  face  knew  very  w^ell. 
But  since  one  sometimes  fails  to  recognize  old  friends 
in  strange  circumstances,  it  is  no  wonder  that  these 
farmers  did  not  identify  the  new  patient  in  Dodd's 
clothes. 

"  We  're  looking  for  a  crazy  man  that  got  away  from  the 
Asylum  this  morning,"  said  Jakes.  "  A  man  about  five  feet 
nine  or  ten.  Rather  portly.  Good-looking  and  gentle- 
manly when  dressed  ;  but  he  ran  off  naked.  Have  you 
seen  or  heard  of  such  a  man  1  " 

"  I  have  n't  seen  anybody  crazier  than  you  or  I,"  said 
the  supposed  parson. 

This  sounded  so  much  like  a  joke,  though  uttered  very 
gravely,  that  Jakes  was  tempted  to  speak  of  the  bay 
mare.  • 

"  I  think  I  know  that  beast  you  're  driving.  You  had 
her  of  Colonel  Jakes  of  Coldwater,  did  n't  you  ?  Well, 
he  's  my  brother.     Your  name  is  Dodd,  I  believe." 

"  I  have  been  called  Dodd.  But  can  you  tell  me  what 
my  first  name  is  1  It  begins  with  E,"  said  the  driver  of 
the  bay  mare,  with  a  shrewd,  almost  a  cunning  look,  which 
did  not  strike  Jakes  as  being  very  ministerial.  Yet  he  had 
heard  that  Dodd  was  something  of  a  joker. 

"  I  never  heard  you  called  anything  but  Parson  Dodd. 
Yes,  I  have  too.  You  made  a  speech  at  the  convention  ; 
I  read  it  in  the  paper.     U  stands  for  Ubenezer." 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  the  other.     "  I  'm  glad  I  've  found 


340  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

out.     Thank  you,"  —  smiling,  and  then  suddenly  casting 
his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"  How  do  you  find  the  mare  1 "  said  Jakes,  by  way  of 
retort. 

"  Perfect ;  arrangements  all  perfect." 

"  That  so  1  No  bad  tricks'?  Of  course  she  's  all  right ; 
glad  you  find  her  so,"  grinned  Jakes. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Longtrot  1 "  asked  the  counterfeit  Dodd. 

"About  a  mile 'n'  a  half — two  mile  —  depends  upon 
where  in  Longtrot  you  're  going." 

"  Do  you  know  Selwyn  1 " 

"  Minister  Selw^-n,  preacher  in  the  yaller  meetin'-house  ] 
I  don't  know  him,  but  I  know  of  him.  How  does  she 
start  off?" 

"You  shall  see." 

The  bay  mare  started  off  very  well ;  and  the  fugitive 
from  the  Asylum,  having  obtained  from  his  pursuer  rather 
more  valuable  information  than  he  gave  in  return,  disap- 
peared over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  on  his  way  to  the  "  yaller 
meetin'-house  "  in  Longtrot. 

"  Wonder  if  she  re'lly  ha'n't  balked  with  him  yet  ?"  said 
Superintendent  Jakes,  as  he  drove  on.  "  I  guess  he  's  a 
jolly  sort  of  parson.  I  've  seen  him  somewhere,  sure 's  the 
world,  though  I  can't  remember  where." 

"  You  have,  and  I  was  there,"  said  Collins  ;  "  though 
where  it  was,  I  remember  no  more  than  yourself" 

They  made  inquiries  for  the  fugitive  all  along  the  route, 
but  could  hear  of  no  more  extraordinary  circumstance,  that 
Sunday  morning,  than  a  runaway  horse,  seen  by  one  or 
two  families,  as  it  passed  on  the  road  to  Longtrot. 

"  It  must  have  gone  by  before  we  turned  the  corner," 
said  Jakes,  "  for  we  've  seen  no  nag  but  the  parson's." 

At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  a  little  red-painted  house, 
standini^  well  back  from  the  street.     "  This  is  the  home  of 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  341 

the  Five  Sisters,  Patrick,"  said  Jakes.  "  Guess  we  '11  give 
'em  a  call." 

He  turned  up  the  lane,  driving  between  the  house  and 
the  rye-field,  and  stopped  in  front  of  the  wood-shed.  The 
dog,  still  bristling  from  his  recent  excitement,  gave  a  surly 
bark,  and  went  gi'owling  away.  At  the  same  time,  five 
vivacious  female  faces  appeared,  three  in  the  doorway  and 
two  at  an  open  window,  and  "  set  up  such  cackling "  (as 
Jakes  ungallantly  expressed  it)  that  he  could  ''  hardly  hear 
himself  think." 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Jakes  1"  cried  one. 

"  From  the  Asylum  *?  "  cried  another. 

"  I  told  you  so,  sister  !     I  told  you  so  ! "  cried  a  third. 

"  I  knowed  the  man  was  —  "  cried  a  fourth. 

"  Crazy  !  "  cried  the  fifth,  and  all  together. 

"  Dog  Bruce  chased  him  out  of  the  r^^e  —  " 

"Sneaked  off  behind  the  fences  —  " 

"  Over  toward  Neighbor  Lapham's  —  " 

"  An'  sister  Delia  declares  —  " 

^'  Hush,  hush,  sister  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  !  She  declares  she  believes  he  had  n't  a 
rag  o'  clothin'  to  his  back  ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jakes,  having  got  all  the  information 
he  wanted  almost  without  the  asking.  "  He  's  my  man  ! 
Thank  ye,  sisters  !     Good  morning." 


VI. 


THE   WIDOW    GARCEY. 

At  the  bay-window  of  the  pretty  Gothic  parsonage  in 
Longtrot  sat  the  widow  of  the  late  pastor.  She  was 
dressed  in  voluminous  black,  exceedingly  becoming  to  her 


342  PEEACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

still  fresh  complexion  and  to  her  full  style  of  beauty.  If 
"  sighing  and  grief"  had  not  produced  on  her  precisely  the 
effect  of  which  Falstaff  complained,  it  had  not  certainly 
wasted  her  to  a  shadow.  No  wonder  if  the  contemplation 
of  those  generous  proportions,  of  those  cheeks  still  fair  and 
round,  and  of  the  serene  temper  that  served  to  keep  them 
so,  had  persuaded  Parson  Dodd  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing yet  left  for  him  in  the  future  better  than  the  lonely 
life  he  was  living. 

There  was  a  book  in  the  fair  hand  that  had  embroidered 
the  white  neckcloth  "  for  her  dear  husband."  It  was  that 
absorbing  poem  of  Pollok's,  "The  Course  of  Time,"  which 
she  justly  deemed  not  too  lively  for  Sunday  reading.  Her 
serious  large  eyes  were  fixed  on  its  pages,  except  when 
ever  and  anon  they  glanced  restlessly  over  it,  out  of  the 
window  and  down  the  j)leasant,  shady  street,  as  if  in  ex- 
pectation of  somebody  quite  as  interesting  as  the  poet 
Pollok.  Somebody  who  did  not  make  his  appearance, 
driving  down  betwixt  the  overhanging  elms,  past  the 
church-green,  and  up  to  the  gate  of  the  parsonage,  as  in 
fancy  she  saw  him  so  plainly  whenever  her  eyes  were  on 
the  book.  Why  did  they  look  up  at  all,  since  it  was  only 
to  refute  the  pretty  vision  1 

Poor  Melissa  sat  there  until  she  seemed  living  the 
Course  of  Time,  instead  of  reading  it.  Occasionally  she 
varied  the  direction  of  her  glances  by  looking  at  her 
watch  ;  and  she  grew  more  and  more  troubled  as  she  saw 
the  hour  slipping  irrevocably  by  which  the  husband's 
friend  should  have  given  to  comforting  the  fatherless  and 
widow  that  Sunday  morning. 

"  What  can  have  happened  1 "  she  asked  herself  "  He 
must  have  taken  offence  at  something  !  What  havs  I  said 
or  done  1  It  must  be  the  cravat  !  Why  did  I  do  so  fool- 
ish a  thino-  as  to  send  it  with  a  note  ? "     She  could  have 


r REACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  313 

said  what  she  wished  to  say  so^  much  better  than  she  could 
write  it ! 

The  first  bell  rang.  And  now  people  were  going  to 
church.  The  children  were  teasing  to  start.  They  were 
tired  of  sitting  still  in  the  house.  What  was  she  waiting 
for  1     Was  that  old  Dodd  coming  again  to-day  1 

''  Levi !  never  let  me  hear  you  call  him  old  Dodd  again  ! 
Mr.  Dodd  is  still  a  young  man,  and  he  has  been  a  good 
friend  to  your  poor  mother.  There  ! "  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  little  start,  for  her  eyes,  wandering  down  the  street  again, 
saw  the  long-expected  buggy  coming  at  last. 

It  was  a  peculiar  bugg}^  high  in  the  springs,  and  with  a 
high  and  narrow  top.  She  could  not  mistake  it.  She  was 
equally  sure  of  the  stylish  hat  and  wavy  brown  locks  and 
ample  shirt-frill  of  the  driver.  But  in  an  instant  the  thrill 
of  hope  the  sight  inspired  changed  to  a  chill  of  disappoint- 
ment and  dismay.  Parson  Dodd  did  not  drive  on  to  the 
parsonage,  as  he  had  always  done  before,  when  coming  to 
preach  for  Selwyn.  The  buggy  turned  up  to  the  meeting- 
house, and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  horse-sheds. 

She  waited  awhile,  in  deep  distress  of  mind,  to  see  it 
or  its  owner  reappear  ;  but  in  vain. 

^'  Levi,"  she  said,  *'  go  right  over  to  the  church,  and  see 
if  Mr.  Dodd  has  come.  Go  as  quick  as  you  can,  but  don't 
let  anybody  know  I  sent  you." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  boy  was  never  so  provokingly 
slow  in  executing  an  errand. 

At  last  she  saw  him  returning  leisurely,  watching  the 
orioles  in  the  elms,  while  her  heart  was  bursting  with  im- 
patience. She  signalled  him  from  the  window,  and  lifted 
interrogating  brows  at  him.  Levi  grinned  and  nodded 
vivaciously  in  reply.     Yes,  the  minister  had  come. 

"  Are  you  —  are  you  very  sure  % "  she  tremblingly  in- 
quired, meeting  him  at  the  door. 


344  PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN. 

"  A'n't  I !  "  said  the  lad.  ^  "  Did  n't  I  first  go  and  look  at 
his  buggy  under  the  shed  1  He  's  got  a  new  horse  ;  but  I 
guess  I  ought  to  know  that  buggy,  often  as  it 's  been  in  our 
barn.  Then  I  peeked  in  through  the  door,  and  saw  him 
just  going  up  into  the  desk." 

Poor  Mrs.  Garcey  was  now  quite  ready  to  go  to  church. 
Since  Dodd  would  not  come  to  her,  she  must  go  to  him; 
she  must  see  his  face,  and  get  one  look  from  him,  even  if 
across  the  space  that  separated  pulpit  from  pew. 

"  How  was  he  looking,  Levi  1 "  she  asked. 

"  Kind  o'  queer.  I  always  thought  Dodd  felt  big  enough, 
but  I  never  saw  him  carry  his  head  quite  so  high.  Looked 
as  if  he  was  mad  at  something." 

"  0,  I  must  have  offended  him  !  "  sighed  the  unhappy 
Melissa,  putting  on  her  things. 

With  slow  and  decorous  steps  she  marshalled  forth  her 
little  tribe  from  the  gate  of  the  parsonage  across  the  green 
to  the  church-porch.  The  bell  was  ringing  again,  its  brown 
back  just  visible  in  the  high  belfry,  tumbling  and  rolling 
like  a  porpoise  in  the  waves  of  its  own  sound.  Wagons 
were  arriving,  and  the  usual  throng  of  church-goers  were 
alighting  on  the  platform  or  walking  up  the  steps.  In  the 
vestibule  she  found  a  group  of  friends  inquiring  seriously 
concerning  each  other's  health,  and  in  supjDressed  voices 
talking  of  the  latest  news.  There  seemed  to  be  some  ex- 
citement with  regard  to  an  insane  man  who  had  that  morn- 
ing escaped  from  the  Asylum,  whom  nobody  appeared  to 
have  seen,  though  he  had  been  heard  of  by  several  through 
those  who  were  out  in  pursuit  of  him.  Somehow,  Melissa 
took  not  much  interest  in  the  greetings  and  the  gossip  of 
these  worthy  people,  and  parting  from  them,  she  passed 
on  into  the  aisle. 

"  Poor  dear !  She  can't  forgit  him/'  whispered  kind- 
hearted  Mrs.  Allgood,  with  a  teaf  of  sympathy  gathering 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  345 

in  the  eye  that  followed  the  gloomily  draped  and  pensive 
figure. 

"  Huh  !  she  's  thinkin'  of  another  husband  a'ready  !  " 
answered  sharp-tongued  Miss  Lynx,  with  a  toss. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  of  the  two,  Miss  Lynx  had  the 
clearer  perception  of  the  hard  fact  in  the  case.  Yet  as  she 
set  it  forth,  unclothed  by  grace  and  the  warm  tissues  of 
human  sympathy,  it  was  no  more  the  truth  than  a  skeleton 
is  a  living  body;  and  Mrs.  Allgood's  gentler  judgment 
was  more  just.  Melissa  had  not  forgotten  that  good  man, 
Garcey;  and  if  now,  in  her  loneliness  and  bereavement, 
she  cherished  hope  of  other  companionship,  was  it  for 
tart  Miss  Lynx  to  condemn  her  ]  Nay,  who,  without 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  compassion  for  its  suf- 
ferings and  its  needs,  had  even  a  right  to  judge  her  1 

She  passed  dow^n  the  aisle,  preceded  by  her  little  ones 
(the  elder  of  whom,  by  the  way,  were  beginning  to  be  not 
so  very  little),  and  followed  them  into  the  pew  in  which  she 
had  first  sat  when  a  bride.  She  would  have  been  alone  in 
it  then,  but  for  the  two  or  three  poor  persons  to  whom 
she  was  always  glad  to  giv€  seats.  But  one  after  another 
a  little  Garcey  had  appeared,  first  in  her  arms,  perhaps, 
then  in  the  seat  beside  her,  and  thus,  year  by  year,  the 
family  row  had  increased,  until  now  it  almost  filled  the 
cushioned  slip.  A  mist  of  tender,  regretful  sentiment 
seemed  to  suffuse  the  very  atmosphere  about  her  as  she 
listened  to  the  tone  of  the  bell,  and  thought  what  changes 
had  come  over  her  dream  of  life  since  she  first  sat  there 
and  looked  up  w^ith  pride  to  see  the  beloved,  the  eloquent 
—  her  Garcey  —  in  the  desk  !  Now,  here  she  was  again, 
looking  with  anxious  eyes  and  a  troubled  heart  for  an- 
other. 

There  were  the  w^ell-known  wavy  chestnut-brown  locks, 
and  a  shoulder  of  the  blue-black  coat,  just  visible  from  the 
15* 


346  PEEACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

side-slip  in  which  she  sat.  But  the  wearer  did  not  once 
deiiin  to  look  at  her.  He  held  his  head  bowed  behind  the 
desk,  as  if  in  devout  contemplation,  and  thoughts  in  which 
she,  alas  !  had  no  share.  She  longed  to  see  him  lift  it, 
and  turn  toward  her  those  gracious,  sympathizing  features, 
the  very  sight  of  which  was  a  comfort  to  her  heart.  And 
it  must  be  confessed  she  had  a  strong  curiosity  regarding 
the  embroidered  cravat. 

"  I  must  speak  with  him  after  the  service,"  thought  she. 
"I  will  make  him  come  to  the  house."  And  she  turned 
and  whispered  to  the  topmost  head  of  the  little  row. 

"  It  has  just  occurred  to  me,  Levi,  you  'd  better  go  and 
put  his  horse  in  our  barn.  It  will  be  too  bad  to  have  the 
poor  beast  standing  under  the  shed  all  day." 

"  'T  won't  hurt  anything ;  besides,  he  might  have  drove 
over  there  himself,  if  he  wanted  his  horse  put  out,"  said 
Levi,  W'ith  a  scowd. 

"  You  can  get  into  the  buggy  and  ride  over,"  said  his 
mother,  grown  all  at  once  wonderfully  solicitous  with  re- 
gard to  the  w^elfare  of  the  poor  beast. 

The  ride  was  an  object,  and  Levi  went. 

The  bell  stopped  ringing,  the  choir  ceased  singing,  the 
congregation  was  in  its  place,  all  hushed  and  expectant ; 
and  still  Levi  did  not  return.  His  mother  would  have  felt 
anxious  about  him  at  any  other  time ;  but  now  a  greater 
trouble  absorbed  the  less. 

It  was  not  like  Parson  Dodd  to  sit  so  long  in  that  way 
with  his  head  down.  A  movement  of  the  arm,  and  a  rustle 
of  leaves  heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  house,  showed  that 
he  was  turning  over  the  manuscript  of  his  sermon,  or  se- 
lecting hymns,  or  looking  up  chapter  and  verse.  But  all 
that  should  have  been  done  before.  He  ought  not  now  to 
keep  the  people  waiting. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  cough.     This  w^as  followed 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  347 

bj  several  coughs,  which  appeared  to  have  been  hitherto 
suppressed.  Then  entered  four  of  the  Five  Sisters,  un- 
commonly late  this  morning,  for  some  reason.  In  spite  of 
untoward  circumstances,  they  had  come  to  hear  Mr.  Dodd 
—  that  dear,  good  man  — •  preach.  And  now  a  buzz  of 
whispers  began  to  ran  through  the  congregation  ;  hushed, 
however,  as  soon  as  the  preacher  rose. 

Melissa,  watching  intently,  saw  the  noble  head  of  luxu- 
riant chestnut-brown  hair  slowly  lifted.  Then  bloomed 
the  abundant  shirt-ruffle  over  the  desk,  together  with  — 
yes,  the  white  neckerchief  embroidered  by  her  own  hand ! 
But  even  while  she  recognized  it,  a  thrill  of  amazement,  a 
chill  of  consternation,  passed  over  her,  as  the  wearer, 
stretching  forth  his  hands,  cried  out  in  a  loud,  strange 
voice,  — 

"  We  will  pray  for  the  si?is  of  ike  world  !  " 


VII. 

FARMER  LAPHAM'S  EXPLOIT. 

When  Parson  Dodd  withdrew  from  the  society  of  the 
Five  Sisters  and  their  dog  Bruce,  he  descried  across  the 
fields  a  house  and  barn  situated  on  another  road,  and 
made  toward  them,  under  the  shelter  of  walls  and  fences, 
thinking  that  if  he  could  take  them  in  the  rear,  and  enter 
the  barn  unperceived,  he  might  at  least  secure  a  horse- 
blanket  in  which  to  introduce  himself  to  the  family. 

He  found,  however,  to  his  dismay,  that  they  must  be 
finally  approached  across  a  range  of  barren  pasture,  un- 
sheltered even  by  a  shrub.  No  friendly  rye-field  here; 
and  he  was  too  far  off  to  make  known  his  wants  by  shout- 


348  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

ing.  He  did  shout  two  or  three  times  from  behind  an  old 
cow-house  in  which  he  took  refuge,  but  timidly,  and  with- 
out the  desired  effect.     What  was  to  be  done  1 

He  had  turned  aside  to  visit  the  cow-house,  in  the  feeble 
hope  of  finding  there  some  relief  to  his  forlorn  condition. 
But  it  was  empty  even  of  straw. 

As  he  cast  about  him  in  his  despair,  seeking  for  some- 
thing wherewith  to  cover  his  farther  advance,  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  cow-house  door.  "  If  I  only  had  that  off  its 
hinges,  I  might  carry  it  before  me,"  thought  he.  He  took 
hold  of  it  and  found  it  could  be  easily  removed.  In  a 
minute  he  had  it  in  his  arms.  "Samson  carrying  off  the 
gates  of  Gaza  ! "  was  the  lively  comparison  that  occurred 
to  him, — but  w.ith  this  difference:  whereas,  in  familiar 
Bible  pictures,  the  strong  man  was  represented  as  bearing 
his  burden  on  his  back,  this  modern  Samson  poised  his 
upon  his  portly  bosom.  "  Circumstances  alter  cases," 
thought  he. 

With  arms  stretched  across  it,  grasping  its  edges  with 
his  hands,  and  just  lifting  it  from  the  ground  (it  was  not 
very  heavy),  he  moved  forward  wdth  it  cautiously,  —  much 
like  a  Roman  soldier  under  cover  of  his  immense  scutum, 
or  door-shaped  shield,  occasionally  setting  it  dowm  to  rest 
(being  careful  at  such  times  to  take  his  toes  from  under 
it),  or  reconnoitring  his  ground  from  behind  it ;  but  always 
keeping  it  skilfully  betwixt  his  person  and  the  enemy's 
walls. 

Now,  one  can  easily  picture  the  amazement  of  the  wor- 
thy Lapham  family,  when  its  younger  members  reported  a 
wonderful  phenomenon  in  the  cow-pasture,  that  calm  Sun- 
day morning  ;  and  mother  and  children  running  to  look, 
behold  !  there  was  the  cow-house  door  advancing  in  this 
extraordinary  manner  to  pay  them  a  visit  ;  staggering 
slightly,  and  balancing  itself  occasionally  on  its  lower  cor- 


PREACHING  FOR   SELWYN.  349 

ners,  like  a  door  that  had  as  yet  learned  but  imperfectly 
the  art  of  walking  !  Close  scrutiny  might  perhaps  have 
revealed  to  them  the  human  fingers  clasping  the  edges  of 
it ;  or  the  feet  of  flesh  and  blood  taking  short  steps  under 
it ;  or  the  glistening  crown  of  the  bearer  peeping  furtively 
from  behind.  But  when  the  vulgar  mind  is  greatly  aston- 
ished, it  is  prone  to  see  only  that  which  most  astonishes ; 
and,  accordingly,  good  Mrs.  Laphani  and  the  little  Lap- 
hams,  failing  to  discriminate  in  such  trifling  matters  as 
hands  and  feet,  saw  only  the  gross  phenomenon  of  the 
perambulating  door.  It  was  like  Biruam  Wood  coming  to 
Dunsinane. 

What  gave  a  sort  of  dramatic  eff'ect  to  the  apparition 
was  the  grotesque  outline  of  a  human  figure,  large  as  life, 
which  the  boys  had  chalked  on  the  outside  of  the  door,  for 
a  target.  As  soon  as  they  saw  this  advance,  grinning  at 
them,  they  were  greatly  excited ;  and  one  ran  for  the 
gun. 

"  Keep  back,  mother !  "  said  he  ;  "I  '11  give  the  old 
thing  a  shot,  if  't  is  Sunday  ! " 

"  Stop  !  You  sha'  n't,  Jason  !  Martin,  run  for  your 
father!    Run!" 

Mr.  Lapham  had  been  talking  with  a  stranger  at  the 
gate,  who  had  just  driven  up  when  the  children  ran  out  to 
proclaim  the  wonder. 

"  Nonsense,  children  !  "  said  he.  "  A  door  don't  move 
across  the  country  without  somebody  to  help  it ;  you  ought 
to  know  that,  mother.  Wal  !  there  !  "  he  exclaimed,  wit- 
nessing the  miracle  from  the  kitchen  window.  "  It  is  on 
its  travels,  sure  enough  !  Jason,  run  and  see  if  you  can 
catch  that  man  I  was  talking  with.  Holler  !  scream  !  Be 
quick  ! " 

"Who  is  he,  father?"  asked  mother. 

"  A  man  from  the  Asylum  —  says  one  of  their  crazy  folks 


350  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

got  away  this  morning.  Run  off  without  his  clothes.  He  's 
behind  that  door,  I  '11  bet  a  dollar  !  " 

This  seemed  a  very  plausible  explanation  of  the  mys- 
tery ;  but  it  did  not  serve  to  tranquillize  the  mother  and 
children.  Was  not  a  live  madman  as  much  to  be  dreaded 
as  a  walking  Hoor  1 

"  Don't  be  frightened.  Just  shet  the  house  and  keep 
dark.  I  '11  head  him  off.  Give  me  the  gun,  I  may  want 
it."     And  arming  himself,  out  the  farmer  sallied. 

Parson  Dodd  had  by  this  time  perceived  that  his  ap- 
proach was  creating  a  sensation.  For  want  of  a  pocket, 
he  had  tied  his  handkerchief  to  his  wrist.  He  now  flut- 
tered that  white  fl^ag  over  a  corner  of  the  door  for  a  signal ; 
then,  with  his  hand  behind  his  mouth  for  a  trumpet,  sum- 
moned a  parley.  Looking  to  see  some  friendly  recognition 
of  his  flag  of  truce,  great  was  his  consternation  at  behold- 
ing so  warlike  a  demonstration  as  a  man  running  to  the 
ambush  of  some  quince-bushes  with  a  gun.  In  vain  he 
fluttered  his  white  flag,  and  called  for  help. 

"I  a' n't  goin'  to  fall  into  no  trap  sot  by  a  craz}'  pate  !" 
thought  shrewd  Farmer  Laphara,  as  he  concealed  himself 

Poor  Dodd  was  in  a  terrible  situation.  He  could  not 
advance  without  the  risk  of  receiving  a  bullet ;  neither 
could  he  lay  the  door  down,  unless,  indeed,  he  first  laid 
himself  down,  and  then  drew  it  over  him  for  a  blanket. 
He  might  retreat,  but  that  movement,  too,  presented  diffi- 
culties. So  there  he  stood,  holding  up  the  target,  beckon- 
ing and  shouting  himself  hoarse  to  no  purpose. 

And  now  the  musical  clamor  of  church  bells  rose  on  the 
tranquil  morning  air.  "  The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his 
breast,  for  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon  I  "  thought  he  ;  for  still 
he  could  not  keep  odd  fancies  out  of  his  brain.  Yet  how 
far  off"  those  bells  sounded  !  —  not  in  distance  only ;  they 
seemed  to  be  in  a  world  of  which  he  had  once  dreamed. 


PREACHING    FOR   SELWYN.  351 

He  thought  of  the  sermon  he  was  to  have  preached  that 
day  as  something  he  might  have  written  in  a  previous 
8tq,te  of  existence,  something  quite  foreign  to  the  dread 
reahties  of  hfe. 

"  I  can't  stand  here  holding  up  a  door  forever !  "  thought 
he  at  last.  And  he  determined  to  move  on,  in  spite  of 
bullets.      So  he  took  up  the  door,  and  resumed  his  march. 

Observing  the  point  he  was  aiming  at,  Lapham  thought 
it  wise  to  get  into  the  barn  before  him,  and  station  himself 
where  he  could  keep  guard  over  his  property,  watch  the 
supposed  madman,  and  fire  a  defensive  shot  if  neces- 
sary. 

Dodd,  bearing  up  the  door,  did  not  perceive  this  flank 
movement ;  but  advancing  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
barn,  he  was  astonished  at  hearing  a  voice  thunder  forth 
from  a  window,  "  Stop,  or  1  '11  shoot !  " 

Dodd  stopped  and  peeped  forth  from  behind  his  portable 
screen,  showing  a  bald  crown  which  was  very  much  against 
him. 

*'His  keeper  said  he  was  bald  on  top  of  his  head,"  the 
farmer  reasoned.  And  he  called  out,  "What  do  you 
wantr' 

"Best  and  a  guide  and  food  and  fire^^  was  running  in 
Dodd's  mind ;  but  he  answered  in  plain  prose,  and  very 
emphaticalty,  "  I  want  clothes." 

This  was  another  corroborating  circumstance,  and  a  very 
strong  one. 

"How  came  you  here  without  clothes'?" 

"  I  lost  them  by  a  singular  accident.  I  am  a  clergyman, 
on  my  way  to  preach." 

This  was  conclusive.  "  The  very  chap  !  His  keeper  said 
he  imagined  himself  a  preacher,"  thought  the  farmer. 
"  Wonder  if  I  can't  manage  to  trap  him  ! "  And  he  cast 
about  him  for  the  means. 


352  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

"  I  '11  explain  everything ;  only  give  me  something  to 
cover  myself,  and  don't  keep  me  standing  here  ! "  said  Par- 
son Dodd,  growing  impatient. 

By  this  time  Lapham  had  formed  his  plan.  "  Do  just 
as  I  tell  ye  now,  and  you  shall  have  clothes.  Come  into 
the  barn,  turn  to  the  right,  and  you  '11  find  a  harness-room, 
and  in  it  you  11  find  a  frock  and  overalls.     Do  you  hear?" 

Dodd  heard,  and  the  prospect  of  even  so  poor  a  cover- 
ing thrilled  his  heart  with  gratitude.  He  came  on  with 
his  door,  left  it  leaning  against  the  barn,  and  entered. 

He  found  the  harness-room  as  described,  and  seized 
eagerly  upon  the  frock  and  overalls.  But  just  as  he  was 
putting  them  on  the  door  of  the  room  flew  together  with  a 
bang;  the  crafty  farmer,  who  had  hidden  behind  it,  sprang 
and  turned  the  key,  and  the  "  madman  "  was  locked  in. 

Having  accomplished  this  daring  feat,  Farmer  Lapham, 
deaf  to  the  cries  of  his  victim,  ran  out  excitedly  to  call  for 
help,  just  as  Patrick  Collins  was  taking  down  a  pair  of 
bars  on  the  other  side  of  the  pasture  for  Superintendent 
Jakes  to  drive  through.  Their  errand  was  soon  made 
known. 

'a  've  ketched  the  feller  for  ye  !  "  cried  the  elated 
farmer.  And  he  led  Jakes  to  the  dungeon  within  which 
the  entrapped  parson  was  calling  lustily. 

"  Unlock  the  door  ;  don't  be  afraid,  man  !  "  said  Jakes. 

Lapham  opened  it  and  stepped  cautiously  back  while 
the  superintendent  entered,  followed  by  Collins  with  a 
rope  and  a  bundle  of  clothes. 

Within  stood  the  captive,  a  comical  figure,  in  loose  blue 
frock  and  overalls,  barefoot  and  wigless,  and  with  a  coun- 
tenance in  which  indignation  at  the  farmer,  joy  at  the 
prospect  of  deliverance,  and  a  consciousness  of  his  own 
ludicrous  situation,  were  mingled  in  an  expression  which 
was  very  droll  indeed. 


PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN.  353 

"  How  are  you  1  "  said  Jakes  in  an  offhand  way.  "  We 
have  brought  your  clothes ;  would  you  like  to  put  'em  on  1 " 

"  I  would ;  and  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you,  my  good 
friends  ! "  said  poor  Dodd,  thinking  the  worst  of  his 
troubles  now  over.  "  How  did  you  find —  But  what  — 
These  —  these  are  not  my  clothes  !  " 

"  A'n't  they  1 "  said  Jakes.  "  You  'd  better  put  'em  on, 
though.     They'll  do  till  you  get  back  to  the  doctor's." 

"  To  the  doctor's  1  What  do  you  mean  1  I  am  a  clergy- 
man.    I  was  on  my  way  to  preach  —  " 

'*  Yes,  we  understand  all  about  that.  Come,  on  with 
the  clothes.  We  don't  expect  you  '11  give  us  any  trouble, 
Mr.  Hillbright." 

"Hillbright!  I  am  Dodd,  — Dodd  of  Cold  water,  — a 
minister  !#" 

"  There  are  two  of  you,  then !  "  said  Jakes,  laughing 
incredulously.  "  We  just  met  one  Parson  Dodd,  in  his 
buggy,  driving  the  bay  mare  he  had  of  my  brother,  going 
over  to  preach  at  Longtrot.     He  's  there  by  this  time." 

"Dodd — Longtrot  —  the  bay  mare!"  gasped  out  the 
astonished  parson.     "  Impossible  !  " 

"  Come,  no  nonsense,  Mr.  Hillbright  !  Colonel  Jakes, 
of  Coldwater,  is  my  brother,  and  I  know  the  mare  perfectly 
well,  —  the  balky  brute  !  " 

"  There  is  some  mistake  here,  Mr.  Jakes,  —  if  that  is 
your  name.  I  knew  the  Colonel  had  a  brother  at  the  In- 
sane Asylum,  and  I  suspect  you  are  he." 

"  Yes,  and  you  've  seen  me  there  often  enough,  I  sup- 
pose. Now,  no  more  fooling.  I  don't  want  to  use  force, 
if  it  can  be  avoided  ;  but  you  must  go  with  us,  —  that 's  all 
there  is  about  it.     Collins,  pass  along  that  rope." 

"  Never  mind  the  rope,"  said  Dodd.  "  Just  hear  my 
explanation,  and  you  '11  save  yourself  and  me  some  trouble. 
That  mare  balked  with  me  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  and 

w 


354  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

to  lead  her  out  I  had  to  take  off  my  clothes  and  put  them 
in  the  wagon,  and  she  ran  away  with  them." 

"A  very  ingenious  story,"  said  Jakes;  "but  you 
would  n't  have  thought  on't  if  I  had  n't  just  said  she  was 
a  balky  brute.  Come,  this  won't  do.  Mr.  Hillbright,  or 
Mr.  Dodd,  or  whatever  your  name,  you  must  go  with  us ; 
and  you  can  take  your  choice,  whether  to  go  peaceably  or 
be  tied  with  this  rope.  We  're  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Lapham." 

Seeing  resistance  to  be  vain,  Parson  Dodd  stepped  into 
the  wagon,  stared  at  by  the  whole  family  of  Laphams,  who 
had  come  out  to  get  a  view  of  the  madman,  and  was  car- 
ried off  triumphantly  by  Jakes  and  Collins. 


VIII. 

DENOUEMENT. 

Animated  by  the  prospect  of  a  ride,  young  Levi  Garcey 
backed  the  minister's  buggy  out  from  under  the  shed,  got 
up  into  it,  took  the  reins,  and  was  having  his  simple  re- 
ward, when,  as  he  was  crossing  the  street,  a  slight  misun- 
derstanding occurred  between  him  and  the  bay  mare.  She 
wanted  to  return  homeward,  never  yet  having  enjoyed  the 
hospitalities  of  the  Garcey  stable.  Not  being  permitted 
to  follow  her  own  sweet  will,  she  refused  to  move  at  all,  — 
balked,  in  short.  And  this  was  the  reason  why  Levi  did 
not  go  back  into  church. 

There  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  when  a  man 
in  a  chaise  drove  up.  He  was  the  same  who  had  stopped 
at  Farmer  Lapham's  gate,  and  whom  Jason  Lapham  had 
failed  to  overtake.     To  be  more  explicit,  it  was  Jervey. 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  355 

Stopping  to  help  the  boy  out  of  his  trouble,  or  to  make 
inquiries  concerning  Hillbright,  he  remarked  in  the  bottom 
of  the  buggy  something  that  had  a  familiar  look.  He 
pulled  it  up,  and  recognized  the  strip  of  carpet  belonging 
to  the  doctor's  boat. 

"  How  came  this  thing  here  1 " 

"  I  d'n'  know.     I  found  it  in  the  buggy." 

"  Whose  buggy  is  it '? " 

"  The  minister's,  —  Mr.  Dodd's." 

"  Where  is  he  ]  " 

"  In  the  meetin' -house,  where  I  ought  to  be,"  said  Levi. 

"  Just  look  out  for  my  horse  a  minute,"  said  Jervey. 
And  he  started  for  the  church  door,  rightly  regarding  the 
carpet  as  a  clew  which  might  lead  to  something. 

What  it  did  lead  to  was  the  most  astonishing  thing  that 
ever  happened  in  all  his  remarkable  experience.  He  had 
thought  that,  if  he  could  get  a  word  with  the  minister,  he 
might  perhaps  hear  from  Hillbright,  and  lo  !  the  minister 
was  Hillbright  himself !  He  did  not  recognize  him  at  first 
in  that  wonderful  costume,  which  seemed  little  short  of 
miraculous ;  and  he  could  scarcely  credit  his  senses  when 
the  madman's  phraseology  and  tones  of  voice  (he  was  still 
praying  at  a  furious  rate  for  the  sins  of  the  world)  be- 
trayed his  identity. 

The  prayer  was  an  incoherent  outpouring  of  mingled 
sense  and  nonsense ;  and  the  congregation  was  beginning 
to  show  marked  signs  of  uneasiness  and  excitement  un- 
der it. 

"  What 's  up  1  "  whispered  Jervey  to  the  sexton. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  sexton.  "  We  expected  Dodd 
of  Cold  water  to  preach  to-day.  But  he  seems  to  have  sent 
an  odd  genius  in  his  place,  — in  his  clothes,  too." 

"  Can  we  get  into  the  pulpit  without  going  through  the 
aisle  1 "  Jervey  quietly  asked. 


356  PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN. 

"  Yes,  I  can  show  you.  What  under  the  sun  is  the  mat- 
ter T' 

"  Your  odd  genius  is  a  madman,  that  escaped  this  morn- 
ing, naked,  from  the  A&ylum." 

"  '  T  a'n't  possible  !     He  came  in  Dodd's  buggy  !  " 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  some  mischief  has  happened  to  Dodd." 

^'  A  madman  !  —  naked  !  He  must  have  murdered  Dodd 
for  his  clothes  !  " 

"  Keep  quiet.  Don't  alarm  the  people ;  but  just  call  out 
two  or  three  of  your  prominent  men." 

I  know  not  how  many  in  the  congregation  had  by  this 
time  learned  the  real  character  of  the  man  w'ho  appeared  be- 
fore them  so  strangely  in  Dodd's  place  and  in  Dodd's  attire. 
It  had  taken  some  a  good  while  to  find  out  that  it  was  not 
Dodd  himself  But  there  was  one  who  at  the  first  moment 
saw  the  astounding  change  and  feared  the  worst. 

This  w^as  Melissa.  She  remembered  the  gossip  in  the 
vestibule  concerning  the  escaped  madman,  and,  connecting 
that  with  the  arrival  of  Dodd's  buggy  and  characteristic 
apparel,  what  else  could  she  infer  than  that  he  had  been 
waylaid  and  robbed,  and  perhaps  killed '?  The  fanatical 
extravagance  of  the  prayer  corroborated  her  suspicions. 
She  glanced  around  and  saw  the  grave  deacons  looking 
restless  and  disturbed.  Then  came  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
and  whispered  to  the  sexton,  who  whispered  to  Deacon 
Sturgis  and  Deacon  Adams  and  Dr.  Cole,  w^ho  got  up  and 
went  out. 

Next  came  a  singular  movement  in  the  pulpit.  It  was 
at  the  close  of  the  prayer,  when  the  usurper  of  Dodd's 
raiment  unclosed  his  eyes,  and,  looking  about  him,  saw  two 
or  three  men  in  the  shadow  of  the  pulpit  stairs.  He 
stooped  to  speak  with  them  ;  there  was  a  sound  of  quick, 
low  voices ;  then  the  spurious  Dodd  had  disappeared  ;  and 
lo  !  there  was  good  Deacon  Sturgis  standing  in  front  of 


PKi: ACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  357 

the  pulpit.  The  whole  congregation  was  by  this  time  in 
a  rustle  of  commotion. 

"  I  hope  the  friends  won't  be  disturbed  at  all,"  said  he. 
"  A  mistake  of  some  little  importance  has  occurred ;  but 
everything  will  come  out  right,  we  trust.  Meanwhile  the 
services  will  go  on." 

Here  the  deacon  read,  with  great  deliberation,  the 
longest  hymn  he  could  select.  "  Congregation  will  please 
jine  with  the  choir  in  singin',"  he  said  ;  and  set  the  exam- 
.ple,  in  a  loud,  nasal  voice. 

The  singing  ended,  he  read  a  passage  of  Scripture  ;  then 
called  on  one  of  the  brethren  noted  for  having  a  gift  that 
way  to  offer  up  a  prayer.  The  prayer  too  was  a  long  one. 
.Then  Deacon  Sturgis  read  another  hymn  ;  during  the  sing- 
ing of  which  Deacon  Adams  came  in  and  whispered  a  word 
in  his  ear. 

The  second  hymn  ended,  Melissa  was  watching  in  great 
distress  of  mind  to  see  what  the  deacons  would  do,  when 
she  noticed  all  eyes  turned  again  toward  the  pulpit. 
Turning  hers  in  the  same  direction,  she  barely  suppressed 
a  scream ;  for  there,  behind  the  desk,  appeared  once  more 
the  well-known  wig,  effulgent  shirt-rufiie,  and  blue-black 
suit.  But  it  was  no  longer  the  spurious  Dodd  that  was 
there.     It  was  Parson  Dodd  himself! 

Riding  away  with  his  captors  in  the  caiTyall,  Dodd  had 
rendered  so  straightforward  an  account  of  himself,  corrobo- 
rating it  with  many  particulars  concerning  Jakes's  brother, 
the  Colonel,  that  Jakes  was  staggered  by  it. 

"  Patrick,"  said  he,  aside  to  Collins,  "  a'n't  it  just  possi- 
ble the  other  Dodd  is  the  man  1  You  know  we  thought  we 
had  seen  him  before  !  " 

"  Ah  !  but  they  're  cunning  divils  !  Don't  ye  belaive  a 
word  this  feller  says,"  replied  Collins. 


358  PREACHING  FOR  SELWYN. 

Jakes,  however,  was  secretly  persuaded  of  his  blunder ; 
and  he  so  far  deferred  to  the  wishes  of  his  prisoner  as  to 
drive  over  toward  Longtrot  in  pursuit  of  "  the  other 
Dodd."  So  it  happened  that  the  real  Dodd's  capture  as  a 
madman  resulted  to  his  advantage,  since  it  hastened  the 
denouement  of  his  imhappy  adventui'e,  and  enabled  him, 
after  all,  to  preach  for  Selwyn. 

The  denouement  took  place  in  front  of  the  meeting-house, 
w^here  Levi  was  still  holding  Jervey's  horse  ;  where  two 
men,  seated  in  Dodd's  buggy,  were  just  starting  in  search 
of  the  owner,  —  or,  rather,  trying  to  start,  for  the  bay  mare 
had  something  to  say  about  that ;  and  where  Patrick, 
catching  a  glimpse  of  Jervey  coming  out  of  the  vestry  with 
his  madman,  called  to  him,  "  Jervey,  Jervey  !  we  've  got 
the  feller !  " 

''  So  have  I  !  "  cried  Jervey  ;  and  there  the  genuine  par- 
son was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  counterfeit. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Hillbright,  bowing  low  in  his  bor- 
rowed plumage,  "  I  succumb ;  I  see  the  world  is  against 
me  ;  I  must  still  gToan  under  the  sins  of  it !  " 

"  I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies,  Mr.  Dodd  ! "  said 
Jakes. 

"  On  the  contrarj^,"  replied  Dodd,  having  fully  recovered 
his  good-humor,  "you  have  done  me  a  service,  though  it 
did  seem  to  me  one  while  that  —  what  with  you  and  your 
Irishman,  and  your  brother  and  his  bay  mare  —  the  Jakes 
family  was  bound  to  ruin  me." 

"  Step  right  into  my  house,  friends ! "  said  Deacon 
Adams.      "  There  everything  can  be  arranged." 

And  there  everything  was  arranged,  to  the  satisfaction 
of  everybody,  excepting  perhaps  Hillbright,  who  was  re- 
luctant to  put  off  his  Heaven-sent  apparel  and  return  to 
the  Asylum  without  fulfilling  his  great  mission. 

Parson  Dodd  vras  himself  again  when  he  appeared  in  the 


PREACHING   FOR   SELWYN.  359 

desk  ;  and  it  is  said  that  he  preached  for  Selwyn  that  day 
one  of  his  very  best  sermons 

"  What  a  beautiful  discourse  ! "  said  one  of  the  Five  Sis- 
ters, thanking  him  for  it  as  he  was  going  out  of  church.    ■ 

"  And,  only  think,  sisters,"  said  another  of  them,  "  how 
near  we  come  to  missin'  it,  all  on  account  of  that  dreadful 
crazy  man  !     I  hope  his  keepers  have  got  him  safe  ! " 

"  I  hope  they  have  !  "  said  Parson  Dodd,  dryly,  as  he 
walked  out  with  Melissa,  and  went  over  to  lunch  at  the 
parsonage. 

The  joke  was  out  before  the  afternoon  services  began ; 
and  when  Dodd  reappeared  in  the  desk,  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  either  he  or  the  gravest  of  his  hearers  repressed 
a  very- strong  inclination  to  smile. 

The  news  of  his  mishap  reached  Coldwater  before  he 
did ;  Superintendent  Jakes  —  to  atone  for  his  blunder,  I 
suppose  —  having  ridden  over  that  afternoon  to  remon- 
strate with  his  brother,  the  Colonel,  for  putting  off  on  the 
parson  so  vicious  a  brute  as  the  bay  mare.  The  whole 
thing  struck  the  Colonel  as  so  good  a  joke,  and  put  him 
into  such  excellent  humor,  that  he  voluntarily  drove  the 
old  gray  over  to  Dodd's  the  next  morning,  and  offered  to 
swap  back,  which  offer  was  most  cheerfully  accepted  by 
the  parson.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  ye,"  said  Jakes,  "  that  the 
Great ur'  was  always  poorest  at  the  start  1 "  So  Dodd  got 
back  his  old  gray,  and  somebody  else  got  shaved  on  the 
bay  mare. 

Parson  Dodd  continued  to  travel  occasionally  the  Long- 
trot  road,  both  on  Sunday  mornings  and  week-day  after- 
noons, until  after  his  marriage.  But  now  Melissa  and  the 
children  (he  is  remarkably  fond  of  children)  make  his  home 
so  delightful  to  him  that  he  leaves  it  as  seldom  as  possible. 
And  so  it  happens  that  of  late  years  he  very  rarely  goes 
over  to  preach  for  Selwyn. 


THE   EOMAJSrOE    OF   A    GLOVE. 


"  ~1  TOLD  on!  "cried  my  travelling  companion.  "The 
J — L  gentleman  has  dropped  something." 

The  driver  pulled  up  his  horses ;  and  before  I  could  pre- 
vent him,  Westwood  leaped  down  from  the  vehicle,  and 
ran  back  for  the  article  that  had  been  dropped. 

It  was  a  glove,  —  my  glove,  which  I  had  inadvertently 
thrown  out,  in  taking  my  handkerchief  from  my  pocket. 

"Go  on,  driver ! "  and  he  tossed  it  into  my  hand  as  he 
resumed  his  seat  in  the  open  stage.  "  I  once  found  a  ro- 
mance in  a  glove.     Since  then,  gloves  are  sacred." 

"  A  romance  1  Tell  me  about  that.  I  am  tired  of  this 
endless  stretch  of  sea-like  country,  these  regular  ground- 
swells  ;  and  it 's  a  good  two  hours'  ride  yet  to  our  stopping- 
place.     Meanwhile,  your  romance." 

"  Did  I  say  romance  1  I  fear  you  would  hardly  think  it 
worthy  of  the  name,"  said  my  companion.  "Every  life 
has  its  romantic  episodes,  or,  at  least,  incidents  which  ap- 
pear such  to  those  who  experience  them.  But  these  ten- 
der little  histories  are  usually  insipid  enough  when  told. 
I  have  a  maiden  aunt,  who  once  came  so  near  having  an 
offer  from  a  pale  stripling,  with  dark  hair,  seven  years  her 
jimior,  that  to  this  day  she  often  alludes  to  the  circum- 
stance, with  the  remark,  that  she  wishes  she  knew  some 
competent  novel-writer  in  whom  she  could  confide,  feeling 
sure  that  the  story  of  that  period  of  her  life  would  make 
the  groundwork  of  a  magnificent  work  of  fiction.      Possi- 


THE  ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE.  361 

bly  I  inherit  my  aunt's  tendency  to  magnify  into  extraor- 
dinary proportions  trifles  which  I  look  at  through  the 
double  convex  lens  of  a  personal  interest.  So  don't  expect 
too  much  of  my  romance,  and  you  shall  hear  it. 

"  I  said  I  found  it  in  a  glove.  It  was  by  no  means  a 
remarkable  glove,  —  middle-sized,  straw-colored,  and  a 
neat  fit  for  this  hand.  Of  course,  there  was  a  young  lady 
in  the  case  ;  —  let  me  see,  —  I  don't  believe  I  can  tell  you 
the  story,"  said  West  wood,  "  after  all !  " 

I  gently  urged  him  to  proceed. 

"  Pshaw  ! "  said  he,  after  kindling  a  cigar  with  a  few 
vigorous  whiffs,  "  what 's  the  use  of  being  foolish  1  My 
aunt  was  never  diffident  about  telling  her  story,  and  why 
should  I  hesitate  to  tell  mine  ]  The  young  lady's  name,  — 
we  '11  call  her  Margaret.  She  was  a  blonde,  with  hazel  eyes 
and  dark  hair.  Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  a  blonde  with 
hazel  eyes  and  dark  hair  1  She  was  the  only  one  I  ever 
saw  ;  and  there  was  the  finest  contrast  imaginable  between 
her  fair,  fresh  complexion,  and  her  superb  tresses  and  deli- 
cately traced  eyebrows.  She  w^as  certainly  lovely,  if  not 
handsome  ;  and  —  such  eyes  !  It  was  an  event  in  one's 
life,  sir,  just  to  look  through  those  luminous  windows  into 
her  soul.  That  could  not  happen  every  day,  to  be  sure  ! 
Sometimes  for  weeks  she  kept  them  turned  from  me,  the 
ivory  shutters  half  closed,  or  the  mystic  curtains  of  reserve 
drawn  within  ;  then,  again,  when  I  was  tortured  with  un- 
satisfied yearnings,  and  almost  ready  to  despair,  she  would 
suddenly  turn  them  upon  me,  the  shutters  thrown  wide, 
the  curtains  away,  and  a  flood  of  radiance  streaming  forth, 
that  filled  me  so  full  of  light  and  gladness,  that  I  had  no 
shadow^y  nook  left  in  me  for  a  doubt  to  hide  in.  She  must 
have  been  conscious  of  this  power  of  expression,  —  she  used 
it  so  sparingly,  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  artfully !  But  I 
always  forgave  her  when  she  did  use  it,  and  cherished  resent- 
ment only  when  she  did  not. 


362  THE  ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

"  Margaret  was  shy  and  proud  ;  I  could  never  completely 
win  her  confidence ;  but  I  knew,  I  knew  well  at  last,  that 
her  heart  was  mine.  And  a  deep,  tender,  woman's  heart 
it  was,  too,  despite  her  reserve.  Without  many  words,  we 
understood  each  other,  and  so  —  Pshaw  ! "  said  West- 
wood,   "  my  cigar  is  out !  " 

"  On  with  the  story  !  " 

"  Well,  we  had  our  lovers'  quarrels,  of  course.  Singular, 
what  foolish  children  love  makes  of  us  1  —  rendering  us 
sensitive,  jealous,  exacting,  in  the  superlative  degi'ee.  I 
am  sure,  we  were  both  amiable  and  forbearing  towards 
all  the  world  besides ;  but,  for  the  powerful  reason  that 
we  loved,  we  were  bound  to  misinterpret  words,  looks,  and 
actions,  and  wound  each  other  on  every  convenient  occa- 
sion. I  was  pained  by  her  attentions  to  others,  or  perhaps 
by  an  apparent  preference  of  a  book  or  a  bouquet  to  me. 
Retaliation  on  my  part  and  quiet  persistence  on  hers  con- 
tinued to  estrange  us,  until  I  generally  ended  by  conceding 
everything  and  pleading  for  one  word  of  kindness  to  end 
my  misery. 

"  I  was  wrong,  —  too  quick  to  resent,  too  ready  to  con- 
cede. No  doubt  it  was  to  her  a  secret  gratification  to  exer- 
cise her  power  over  me  ;  and  at  last  I  was  convinced  that 
she  wounded  me  purposely,  in  order  to  provoke  a  temporary 
estrangement  and  enjoy  a  repetition  of  her  triumph. 

"  It  was  at  a  party  ;  the  thing  she  did  was  to  waltz  with 
a  man  whom  she  knew  I  detested,  whom  I  knew  she  could 
not  respect,  and  whose  half-embrace,  as  he  whirled  her  in 
the  dance,  almost  put  murder  into  my  thoughts. 

"  '  Margaret,'  I  said,  '  one  last  word  !  If  you  care  for 
me,  beware  ! ' 

"  That  was  a  foolish  speech,  perhaps.  It  was  certainly 
ineffectual.  She  persisted,  looking  so  calm  and  composed 
that  a  great  weight  fell  upon  my  heart.     I  walked  away  ; 


THE  ROiMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE,  363 

I  wandered  about  the  saloons ;  I  tried  to  gossip  and  be 
gay ;  but  the  wound  was  too  deep. 

"  I  accompanied  her  home,  late  in  the  evening.  We 
scarcely  spoke  by  the  way.  At  the  door,  she  looked  me 
sadly  in  the  face,  —  she  gave  me  her  hand ;  I  thought  it 
trembled. 

"  '  Good  night ! '  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

" '  Good  by  ! '  I  answered,  coldly,  and  hurried  from  the 
house. 

"  It  was  some  consolation  to  hear  her  close  the  door  after 
I  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  to  know  that 
she  had  been  listening  to  my  footsteps.  Bat  I  was  very 
angry.  I  made  stern  resolutions  ;  I  vowed  to  myself  that 
I  would  wring  her  heart,  and  never  swerve  from  my  pur- 
pose until  I  had  wrung  out  of  it  abundant  drops  of  sorrow 
and  contrition.     How  I  succeeded  you  shall  hear. 

"  I  had  previously  engaged  her  to  attend  a  series  of 
concerts  with  me ;  an  arrangement  which  I  did  not  now 
regret,  and  for  good  reasons.  Once  a  week,  with  extreme 
punctuality,  1  called  for  her,  escorted  her  to  the  concert- 
room,  and  carefully  reconducted  her  home,  —  letting  no 
opportunity  pass  to  show  her  a  true  gentleman's  deference 
and  respect,  —  conversing  with  her  freely  about  music, 
books,  anything,  in  short,  except  what  we  both  knew  to  be 
deepest  in  each  other's  thoughts.  Upon  other  occasions 
I  avoided  her,  and  even  refrained  from  going  to  places 
where  she  was  expected,  —  especially  where  she  knew  that 
I  knew  she  was  expected. 

"Well,"  continued  Westwood,  ''my  designs  upon  her 
heart,  which  I  was  going  to  wring  so  unmercifully,  did  not 
meet  with  very  brilliant  success.  To  confess  the  humili- 
ating truth,  I  soon  found  that  I  was  torturing  myself  a 
good  deal  more  than  I  was  torturing  her.  As  a  last  and 
desperate  resort,  what  do  you  think  I  did  1 " 


364         THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE. 

"  You  probably  asked  her  to  ask  your  forgiveness." 
"  Not  I  !  I  have  a  will  of  adamant,  as  people  find,  who 
tear  away  the  amiable  flowers  and  light  soil  that  cover  it ; 
and  she  had  reached  the  impenetrable,  firm  rock.  I  neither 
made  any  advances  towards  a  reconciliation  nor  invited 
any.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did  do,  as  a  final  trial  of 
her  heart.  I  had,  for  some  time,  been  meditating  a  Euro- 
pean tour,  and  my  interest  in  her  had  alone  kept  me  at 
home.  Some  friends  of  mine  were  to  sail  early  in  the 
spring,  and  I  now  resolved  to  accompany  them.  I  don't 
know  how  much  pride  and  spite  there  was  in  the  resolution, 
—  probably  a  good  deal.  I  confess  I  wished  to  make  her 
goffer,  —  to  show  her  that  she  had  calculated  too  much 
upon  my  weakness,  —  that  I  could  be  strong  and  happy 
without  her.  Yet,  with  all  this  bitter  and  vindictive  feel- 
ing, I  listened  to  a  very  sweet  and  tender  whisper  in  my 
heart,  which  said,  '  Now,  if  her  love  speaks  out,  —  now,  if 
she  says  to  me  one  true,  kind,  womanly  word,  —  she  shall 
go  with  me,  and  nothing  shall  ever  take  her  from  me 
again  ! '  The  thought  of  what  might  be,  if  she  would  but 
say  that  word,  and  of  what  must  be,  irrevocably,  if  her 
pride  held  out,  shook  me  mightily.  But  my  resolution 
was  taken. 

"  On  the  day  of  the  last  concert,  I  imparted  the  secret 
of  my  intended  journey  to  a  person  who,  I  felt  tolerably 
sure,  would  rush  at  once  to  Margaret  with  the  news. 
Then,  in  the  evening,  I  went  for  her  ;  I  was  conscious  that 
my  manner  towards  her  was  a  little  more  tender,  or,  rather, 
a  little  less  coldly  courteous,  that  night,  than  it  had 
usually  been  of  late ;  for  my  feelings  were  softened,  and  I 
had  never  seen  her  so  lovely.  I  had  never  before  known 
what  a  treasure  I  was  about  to  lose.  The  subject  of  my 
voyage  was  not  mentioned,  and  if  she  had  heard  of  it,  she 
accepted  the  fact  without  the  least  visible  concern.     Her 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE.  365 

quietness  under  the  circumstances  chilled  me  and  dis- 
heartened me.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  can  give  much 
superfluous  love,  or  cling  with  unreasonable,  blind  passion 
to  an  object  that  yields  no  affection  in  return.  A  quick 
and  effectual  method  of  curing  a  fancy  in  persons  of  my 
temperament  is  to  teach  them  that  it  is  not  reciprocated. 
Then  it  expires  like  a  flame  cut  off  from  the  air,  or 
a  plant  removed  from  the  soil.  The  death-struggle,  the 
uprootiiig,  is  the  painful  thing ;  but  when  the  heart  is 
thoroughly  convinced  that  its  love  is  misplaced,  it  gives 
up,  with  one  last  sigh  as  big  as  fate,  sheds  a  few  tears, 
says  a  prayer  or  two,  thanks  God  for  the  experience,  and 
becomes  a  wiser,  calmer,  —  yes,  and  a  happier  heart  than 
before." 

"  True,"  I  said  ;  "  but  our  hearts  are  not  easily  con- 
vinced." 

"  Ay,  there  's  the  rub.  It  is  for  want  of  a  true  percep- 
tion. There  cannot  be  a  true  love  without  a  true  per- 
ception. Love  is  for  the  soul  to  know,  from  its  own 
intuition  ;  not  for  the  understanding  to  believe,  from  the 
testimony  of  those  very  unreliable  witnesses  called  eyes 
and  ears.  This  seems  to  have  been  my  case ;  my  soul 
was  aware  of  her  love,  and  all  the  evidence  of  my  external 
senses  could  not  altogether  destroy  that  interior  faith. 
But  that  evening  I  said,  '  I  believe  you  now,  my  senses ! 
I  doubt  you  now,  my  soul !  She  never  loved  me ! '  So 
I  was  really  very  cold  towards  her  —  for  about  twenty 
minutes. 

"  I  walked  home  with  her ;  we  were  both  silent ;  but 
at  the  door  she  asked  me  to  go  in.  Here  my  calmness 
deserted  me  and  I  could  hardly  hold  my  heart,  while  I 
replied,    '  If  you  particularly  wish  it.' 

"  '  If  I  did  not,  I  should  not  ask  you,'  she  said  ;  and  I 
went  in. 


3G6  THE  ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE. 

"  I  was  ashamed  and  vexed  at  myself  for  trembling  so, 
—  for  I  was  in  a  tremor  from  head  to  foot.  There  was 
company  in  the  parlors,  —  some  of  Margaret's  friends.  I 
took  my  seat  upon  a  sofa,  and  soon  she  came  and  sat  by 
my  side. 

•'"I  suppose,'  said  one,  '  Mr.  West  wood  has  been  telling 
Margaret  all  about  it.' 

"'About  what?'  Margaret  inquired,  —  and  here  the 
truth  flashed  upon  me,  —  the  news  of  my  proposed  voy- 
age had  not  yet  reached  her !  She  looked  at  me 
with  a  troubled,  questioning  expression,  and  said,  'I  felt 
that  something  was  going  to  happen.  Tell  me  what 
it  is.' 

"  I  answered,  '  Your  friend  can  best  explain  what  she 
means.' 

"  Then  out  came  the  secret.  A  shock  of  surprise  sent 
the  color  from  Margaret's  face ;  and  raising  her  eyes  she 
asked,  quite  calmly,  but  in  a  low  and  unnatural  tone,  '  Is 
this  so  1     You  are  really  going  'i ' 

"  *  I  am  really  going.' 

"  She  could  not  hide  her  agitation.  Her  white  face  be- 
trayed her.  Then  I  was  glad,  wickedly  glad,  in  my  heart, 
and  vain  enough  to  be  gratified  that  others  should  behold 
and  know  I  held  a  power  over  her.  Well,  —  but  I  suffered 
for  that  folly. 

"  '  I  feel  hurt,'  she  said  after  a  little  while,  '  because 
you  have  not  told  me  this.  You  have  no  sister,'  (this  was 
spoken  very  quietly,)  '  and  it  would  have  been  a  privilege 
for  me  to  take  a  sister's  place,  and  do  for  you  those  little 
things  which  sisters  do  for  brothers  who  are  going  on  long 
journeys.' 

"  I  was  choked ;  it  was  a  minute  before  I  could  speak. 
Then  I  said  that  I  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  tax  her 
time  or  thoughts  to  do  anything  for  me. 


THE   ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE.  367 

"  '0,  you  know,'  she  said,  'you  have  been  kind  to  me, 
so  much  kinder  than  I  have  deserved  ! ' 

"  It  was  unendurable,  —  the  pathos  of  those  words  !  If 
we  had  been  alone,  there  our  trial  would  have  ended.  But 
the  eyes  of  others  were  upon  us,  and  I  steeled  myself. 

" '  Besides,'  I  said,  '  I  know  of  nothing  that  you  can  do 
for  me.' 

"  '  There  must  be  many  little  things ;  to  begin  with, 
there  is  your  glove,  which  you  are  tearing  to  pieces.' 

"  True,  I  was  tearing  my  glove ;  she  was  calm  enough 
to  observe  it  !     That  made  me  angry. 

"  *  Give  it  to  me  ;  I  will  mend  it  .for  you.  Have  n't  you 
other  gloves  that  need  mending  1 ' 

"  I,  who  had  triumphed,  was  humbled.  My  heart  was 
breaking,  —  and  she  talked  of  mending  gloves  !  I  did  not 
omit  to  thank  her.     I  coldly  arose  to  go. 

"  Well,  I  felt  now  that  it  was  all  over.  The  next  day  I 
secured  my  passage  in  the  steamer  in  which  my  friends 
v/ere  to  sail.  I  took  pains  that  Margaret  should  hear  of 
that,  too.  Then  came  the  preparations  for  travel,  —  ar- 
ranging affairs,  writing  letters,  providing  myself  with  a 
compact  and  comfortable  outfit.  Europe  was  in  prospect, 
—  Paris,  Switzerland,  Italy,  lands  to  which  my  dreams 
had  long  since  gone  before  me,  and  to  which  I  now  turned 
my  eyes  with  reawakening  aspirations.  A  new  glory  arose 
upon  my  life,  in  the  light  of  which  Margaret  became  a 
fading  star.  It  was  so  much  easier  than  I  had  thought  to 
give  her  up,  to  part  from  her  !  I  found  that  I  could  for- 
get her  in  the  excitement  of  a  fresh  and  novel  experience  ; 
while  she,  —  could  she  forget  me  1  When  lovers  part, 
happy  is  he  who  goes  !  alas  for  the  one  that  is  left  be- 
hind"^! 

"  One  day  when  I  was  busy  with  the  books  which  I  was 
to  take  with  me,  a  small  package  was  handed  in.     I  need 


368  THE  ROMANCE  OF   A  GLOVE. 

not  tell  yuu  tliat  I  experienced  a  thrill  when  I  saw  Mar- 
garet's handwriting  upon  the  wrapper.  I  tore  it  open,  — 
and  what  think  you  I  found  ]  My  glove  I  Nothing  else. 
I  smiled  bitterly,  to  see  how  neatly  she  had  mended  it ; 
then  I  sighed  ;  then  I  said,  '  It  is  finished  ! '  and  tossed 
the  glove  disdainfully  into  my  trunk. 

"On  the  day  before  that  fixed  for  the  sailing  of  the 
steamer,  I  made  farewell  calls  upon  many  of  my  friends,  — 
among  others,  upon  Margaret.  But,  through  the  perver- 
sity of  pride  and  will,  I  did  not  go  alone ;  I  took  with  me 
Joseph,  a  mutual  acquaintance,  who  was  to  be  my  travel- 
ling-companion. I  felt  some  misgivings,  when  I  saw  how 
Margaret  had  changed ;  she  was  so  softened,  and  so  pale  ! 

"  The  interview  was  a  painful  one,  and  I  cut  it  short. 
As  we  were  going  out,  she  gently  detained  me,  and  said, 
*  Did  you  receive  —  your  glove '? ' 

"  '  0  yes,'  I  said,  and  thanked  her  for  mending  it. 

"  '  And  this  is  all  —  all  you  have  to  say  ? '  she  asked. 

"  '  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  —  except  good  by.' 

"  She  held  my  hand.      *  Nothing  else  ? ' 

"  '  No,  —  it  is  useless  to  talk  of  the  past,  Margaret ; 
and  the  future,  —  may  you  be  happy  )     Good  by  !  * 

"  I  thought  she  would  speak  ;  I  could  not  believe  she 
would  let  me  go ;  but  she  did  !  I  bore  up  well  until 
night.  Then  came  a  revulsion.  I  walked  three  times 
past  the  house,  wofully  tempted,  my  love  and  my  will  at 
cruel  warfare  ;  but  I  did  not  go  in.  At  midnight  I  saw 
the  light  in  her  room  extinguished  ;  I  knew  she  had  re- 
tired, but  whether  to  sleep,  or  weep,  or  pray,  —  how  could 
I  tell?  I  went  home.  I  did  not  close  my  eyes  that  night. 
I  was  glad  to  see  the  morning  come,  after  such  a  night  ! 

"  The  steamer  was  to  sail  at  ten.  The  bustle  of  em- 
barkation ;  strange  scenes  and  strange  faces ;  parting  from 
friends  ;  the  ringing  of  the  bell ;  kst  adieus,  —  seme,  who 


THE  ROiAIANCE   OF   A   GLOVE.  3G9 

were  to  go  with  us,  huiTjing  aboard,  others,  who  were  to 
stay  behind,  as  hastily  going  ashore  ;  the  withdrawal  of 
the  plank,  —  sad  sight  to  many  eyes  !  casting  off  the  lines, 
the  steamer  swinging  heavily  around,  the  rushing,  irregu- 
lar motion  of  the  great,  slow  paddles ;  the  waving  of  hand- 
kerchiefs from  the  decks,  and  the  responsive  signals  from 
the  crowd  lining  the  wharf;  oft"  at  last,  — the  faces  of 
friends,  the  crowd,  the  piers,  and,  lastly,  the  city  itself, 
fading  from  sight ;  the  dash  of  spray,  the  freshening  breeze, 
the  novel  sight  of  our  little  world  detaching  itself  and 
floating  away  ;  the  feeling  that  America  was  past,  and  Eu- 
rope was  next ;  —  all  this  filled  my  mind  with  animation 
and  excitement,  which  shut  out  thoughts  of  Margaret. 
Could  I  have  looked  with  clairvoyant  vision,  and  -beheld 
her  then,  locked  in  her  chamber,  should  I  have  been  so 
happy]  0,  what  fools  vanity  and  pride  make  of  us! 
Even  then,  with  my  heart  high-strung  with  hope  and 
courage,  had  I  known  the  truth,  I  should  have  abandoned 
my  friends,  the  voyage,  and  Europe,  and  returned  in  the 
pilot's  boat,  to  find  something  more  precious  than  all  the 
continents  and  countries  of  the  globe  in  the  love  of  that 
heart  which  I  was  carelessly  flinging  away." 

Here  Westwood  took  breath.  The  sun  was  now  almost 
set.  The  prairie  was  still  and  cool ;  the  heavy  dews  were 
beginning  to  ftill  ;  the  shadows  of  the  green  and  flowered 
undulations  filled  the  hollows,  like  a  rising  tide  ;  and  the 
horses  moved  at  a  quicker  pace.  Westwood  lighted  his 
cigar,  drew  a  few  whiffs,  and  proceeded. 

"  We  had  a  voyage  of  eleven  days.  But  to  me  an  im- 
mense amount  of  experience  was  crowded  into  that  brief 
period.  The  fine  exhilaration  of  the  start,  —  the  breeze 
gradually  increasing  to  a  gale  ;  then  horrible  sea-sickness, 
home-sickness,  love-sickness ;  after  which,  the  weather 
v>hich  sailors  love,  games,  gayety,  and  flirtation.  There  is 
16*  '  X 


370  THE   ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE. 

no  such  social  freedom  to  be  enjoyed  anywhere  as  on  board 
an  ocean  steamer.  The  breaking  up  of  old  associations, 
the  opening  of  a  fresh  existence,  the  necessity  of  new 
relationships,  —  this  fuses  the  crust  of  conventionality, 
quickens  the  springs  of  life,  and  renders  character  sym- 
pathetic and  fluent.  The  past  is  easily  put  away  ;  we  be- 
come plastic  to  new  influences ;  we  are  delighted  at  the 
discovery  of  unexpected  affinities,  and  astonished  to  find 
in  ourselves  so  much  wit,  eloquence,  and  fine  susceptibility 
which  we  did  not  before  dream  we  possessed. 

"  This  freedom  is  especially  provocative  of  flirtation. 
AVe  see  each  fair  brow  touched  with  a  halo  whose  colors 
are  the  reflection  of  our  own  beautiful  dreams.  Loveliness 
is  tenfold  more  lovely,  bathed  in  this  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance ;  and  manhood  is  invested  with  ideal  graces.  Don't 
think  I  am  now  artfully  preparing  your  mind  to  excuse 
what  I  am  about  to  confess.  Take  these  things  into  con- 
sideration, if  you  will ;  then  think  as  you  please  of  the 
weakness  and  wild  impulse  with  which  I  fell  in  love 
with  — 

"  Call  her  Flora.  The  most  superb,  captivating  crea- 
ture that  ever  insnared  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  Adam. 
A  fine  olive  complexion  ;  magnificent  dark  auburn  hair ; 
eyes  full  of  fire  and  softness  ;  lips  that  could  pout  or  smile 
with  incomparable  fascination  ;  a  figure  of  surprising  sym- 
metry, just  voluptuous  enough.  But,  after  all,  her  great 
poweT  lay  in  her  freedom  from  all  affectation  and  conven- 
tionality, —  in  her  spontaneity,  her  free,  sparkling,  and 
vivacious  manners.  She  was  the  most  daring  and  dazzling 
of  women,  without  ever  appearing  immodest  or  repulsive. 
She  walked  with  such  proud,  secure  steps  over  the  com- 
monly accepted  barriers  of  social  intercourse,  that  even 
those  who  blamed  her  and  pretended  to  be  shocked  were 
compelled  to  admire.     She  was  the  belle,  the  Juno,  of  the 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE.  371 

saloon,  the  supreme  ornament  of  the  upper  deck.  Just 
twenty,  —  not  without  wit  and  culture,  —  full  of  poetry 
and  enthusiasm.     Do  you  blame  me  1 " 

"  Not  a  whit,"  I  said  ;   "  but  for  Margaret  —  " 

"  Ah,  Margaret !  "  said  Westwood,  with  a  sigh.  "  But, 
you  see,  I  had  given  her  up.  And  when  one  love  is  lost, 
there  sink  such  awful  chasms  into  the  soul,  that,  though 
they  cannot  be  filled,  we  must  at  least  bridge  them  over 
with  a  new  affection.  The  number  of  marriages  built  in 
this  w^ay,  upon  false  foundations  of  hollowness  and  despair, 
is  incomputable.  We  talk  of  jilted  lovers  and  disap- 
pointed girls  marrying  '  out  of  spite.'  No  doubt,  such 
petty  feeling  hurries  forward  many  premature  matches. 
But  it  is  the  heart,  left  shaken,  unsupported,  wretchedly 
sinking,  which  reaches  out  for  sympathy,  and  clings  like 
a  helpless  vine  to  the  sunny-sided  wall  of  the  nearest  con- 
solation. If  you  wish  to  marry  a  girl  and  can't,  and  are 
weak  enough  to  desire  her  still,  this  is  what  you  should 
do  :  get  some  capable  man  to  jilt  her.  Then  seize  your 
chance.  All  the  affections  which  have  gone  out  to  him, 
unmet,  ready  to  droop,  quivering  with  the  painful,  hungry 
instinct  to  gi'asp  some  object,  may  possibly  lay  hold  of 
you.  Let  the  world  sneer ;  but  God  pity  such  natures, 
which  lack  the  faith  and  fortitude  to  live  and  die  true  to 
their  best  love  ! 

''Out  of  my  own  mouth  do  I  condemn  myself?  Very 
well,  I  condemn  myself;  peccavi  /  If  I  had  ever  loved 
Margaret,  then  I  did  not  love  Flora.  The  same  heart  can- 
not find  its  counterpart  indifferently  in  two  si-ch  opposites. 
What  charmed  me  in  one  w^as  her  purity,  softness,  and 
depth  of  soul.  What  fascinated  me  in  the  other  was  her 
bloom,  beauty,  and  passion.  Which  was  the  true  sym- 
pathy ^ 

"  I  did  not  stop  to  ask  that  question  when  it  was  most 


372  THE  ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE. 

important  that  it  should  be  seriously  considered.  I  rushed 
into  the  crowd  of  competitors  for  Flora's  smiles,  and  dis- 
tanced them  all.  I  was  pleased  and  proud  that  she  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  her  preference  for  me.  We  played  chess  ; 
we  read  poetry  out  of  the  same  book  ;  w^e  ate  at  the  same 
table  ;  we  sat  and  watched  the  sea  together,  for  hours,  in 
those  clear,  bright  days ;  we  promenaded  the  deck  at  sun- 
set, her  hand  upon  my  arm,  her  lips  forever  turning  up 
tenderly  towards  me,  her  eyes  pouring  their  passion  into 
me.  Then  those  glorious  nights^  when  the  ocean  was  a 
vast,  wild,  fluctuating  stream,  flashing  and  sparkling  about 
the  ship,  spanned  with  a  quivering  bridge  of  splendor  on 
one  side,  and  rolling  off*  into  awful  darkness  and  mystery 
on  the  other ;  when  the  moon  seemed  swinging  among  the 
shrouds  like  a  ball  of  white  fire  ;  when  the  few  ships  went 
by  like  silent  ghosts ;  and  Flora  and  I,  in  a  long  trance  of 
happiness,  kept  the  deck,  heedless  of  the  throng  of  prom- 
enaders,  forgetful  of  the  past,  reckless  of  the  future,  aware 
only  of  our  own  romance  and  the  richness  of  the  present 
hour. 

"Joseph,  my  travelling-companion,  looked  on,  and  wrote 
letters.  He  showed  me  one  of  these,  addressed  to  a  friend 
of  Margaret's.  In  it  he  extolled  Flora's  beauty,  piquancy, 
and  supremacy  ;  related  how  she  made  all  the  women  jeal- 
ous and  all  the  men  mad ;  and  hinted  at  my  triumph.  I 
knew  that  the  letter  would  reach  Margaret's  eyes,  and  was 
vain  enough  to  be  pleased. 

"  At  last,  one  morning  at  daybreak,  I  went  on  deck, 
and  saw  the  shores  of  England.  Only  a  few  days  before, 
we  had  left  America  behind  us,  brown  and  leafless,  just 
emerging  from  the  long  gloom  of  winter ;  and  now  the 
slopes  of  another  world  arose  green  and  inviting  in  the  flush 
of  spring.  There  was  a  bracing  breeze  ;  the  dingy  waters 
of  the  Mersey  rolled  up  in  wreaths  of  beauty  ;  the  fleets  of 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE.  373 

ships,  steamers,  sloops,  lighters,  pilot-boats,  bounding  over 
the  waves,  meeting,  tacking,  plunging,  swaying  gracefully 
under  the  full-swelling  canvas,  presented  a  picture  of 
wonderful  animation ;  and  the  mingling  hues  of  sunshine 
and  mist  hung  over  all.  I  paced  the  deck,  solemnly  joyful, 
swift  thoughts  pulsing  through  me  of  a  dim  far-oft"  Mar- 
garet, of  a  near  radiant  Flora,  of  hope  and  happiness  supe- 
rior to  fate.  It  was  one  of  those  times  when  the  excited 
soul  transfigures  the  world,  and  we  marvel  how  we  could 
ever  succumb  to  a  transient  sorrow  while  the  whole  uni- 
verse blooms,  and  an  infinite  future  waits  to  open  for  us  its 
doors  of  wonder  and  joy. 

"  In  this  state  of  mind  I  was  joined  by  Flora.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  we  walked  up  and  down  together. 
She  was  serious,  almost  sad,  and  she  viewed  the  English 
hills  with  a  pensiveness  which  became  her  better  than 
mirth. 

"  '  So,'  she  sighed,  '  all  our  little  romances  come  to  an 
end  ! ' 

"  '  Not  so,'  I  said  ;  '  or  if  one  romance  ends,  it  is  to  give 
place  to  another,  still  truer  and  sweeter.  Our  lives  may 
be  all  a  succession  of  romances,  if  we  will  make  them  so. 
I  think  now  I  will  never  doubt  the  future ;  for  I  find  that, 
when  I  have  given  up  my  dearest  hopes,  my  best  beloved 
friends,  and  accepted  the  gloomy  belief  that  all  life  besides 
is  barren,  —  then  comes  some  new  experience,  filling  my 
empty  cup  with  still  more  delicious  wine.' 

"  *  Don't  vex  me  with  your  philosophy  ! '  said  Flora.      '  I 
.  don't  know  anything  about  it.     All  I  know  is  this  present, 
—  this  sky,  this  earth,  this  sea,  and  the  joy  between,  which 
I  can't  give  up  quite  so  easily  as  you  can,  with  your  beau- 
tiful theory  that  something  better  awaits  you.' 

"'I  have  told  you,'  I  replied, — for  I  had  been  quite 
frank  with  her,  —  'how  I  left  America,  —  what  a  blank 


374  THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

life  was  to  me  then ;  and  did  I  not  turn  my  back  upon  all 
that  to  meet  face  to  face  the  greatest  happiness  which  I 
have  ever  yet  known  1  Ought  not  this  to  give  me  faith  in 
the  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends  1 " 

"  '  And  so,'  she  answered,  '  when  I  have  lost  you,  I  shall 
have  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  you  are  enjoying 
some  still  more  exquisite  consolation  for  the  slight  pangs 
you  may  hav.e  felt  at  parting  from  me  !  Your  philosophy 
will  make  it  easy  for  you  to  say,  "  Good  by  !  it  was  a 
pretty  romance  ;  I  go  to  find  prettier  ones  still ;  "  and 
then  forget  me  altogether  !  ' 

"  '  And  you,'  I  said,  —  '  will  that  be  easy  for  you  1 ' 

"  '  Yes,'  she  cried  with  spirit,  '  anything  is  easy  to  a 
proud  woman,  who  finds  that  the  brief  romance  of  a  ten 
d'Ajs'  acquaintance  has  already  become  tiresome  to  her 
friend.  I  am  glad  I  have  enjoyed  w^hat  I  have ;  that  is 
so  much  gain,  of  which  you  cannot  rob  me  ;  and  now  I 
can  say  good  by  as  coolly  as  you,  or  I  can  die  of  shame, 
or  I  can  at  once  walk  over  this  single  rail  into  the  water, 
and  quench  this  little  candle,  and  so  an  end  !  ' 

"  She  sprang  upon  a  bench,  and,  I  swear  to  you,  I  thought 
she  was  going  down !  I  was  so  exalted  b}^  this  passionate 
demonstration,  that  I  should  certainly  have  gone  over 
with  her,  and  felt  perfectly  content  to  die  in  her  arms,  — 
at  least,  until  I  began  to  realize  what  a  very  disagreeable 
bath  we  had  chosen  to  drown  in. 

"  I  drew  her  away.  I  w^alked  up  and  down  wath  that 
superb  creature  panting  and  palpitating  almost  upon  my 
heart ;  I  poured  into  her  ear  I  know  not  what  extravagant 
vows ;  and  before  the  slow-handed  sailors  had  fastened 
their  cable  to  the  buoy  in  the  channel,  we  had  knotted  a 
more  subtile  and  difficult  noose,  not  to  be  so  easily  undone  ! 

"  Now  see  what  strange,  variable  fools  we  are  !  Months 
of  tender  mtercourse  had  failed  to  bring  about  anything 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE.  375 

like  a  positive  engagement  between  Margaret  and  myself ; 
and  here  behold  me  irrevocably  pledged  to  Flora,  after  a 
ten  days'  acquaintance  ! 

"  Six  mortal  hours  were  exhausted  in  making  the  steam- 
er fast ;  in  sending  off  her  Majesty's  mails,  of  which  the 
cockney  speaks  with  a  tone  of  reverence  altogether  disgust- 
ing to  us  free-minded  Yankees;  and  in  entertaining  the 
custom-house  inspectors,  who  paid  a  long  and  tedious  visit 
to  the  saloon  and  our  luggage.  Then  we  were  suffered 
to  land,  and  enter  the  noisy,  solid  streets  of  Liverpool, 
amid  the  donkeys  and  beggars  and  quaint  scenes  which 
strike  the  American  so  oddly  upon  a  first  visit.  All  this 
delay,  the  weariness  and  impatience,  the  contrast  between 
the  mornmg  and  the  hard,  grim  reality  of  midday,  brought 
me  down  from  my  elevation.  I  felt  alarmed  to  think  of 
what  had  passed.  I  seemed  to  have  been  doing  some  wild, 
unadvised  act  in  a  fit  of  intoxication.  Margaret  came  up 
before  me,  sad,  silent,  reproachful ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon 
Flora's  bedimmed  face,  I  wondered  how  I  had  been  so 
charmed. 

''  We  took  the  first  train  for  London,  where  we  arrived 
at  midnight.  Two  weeks  in  that  vast  Babel,  —  then,  ho  ! 
for  Paris  !  Twelve  hours  by  rail  and  steamer  carried  us 
out  of  John  Bull's  dominions  into  the  brilliant  metropolis 
of  his  French  neighbor.  Joseph  accompanied  us,  and 
wrote  letters  home,  filled  with  gossip  which  I  knew  would 
reach  Margaret.  I  had  not  found  it  so  easy  to  forget  her 
as  I  had  supposed  it  would  be.  Flora's  power  over  me 
was  sovereign  ;  but  when  I  was  weary  of  the  dazzle  and 
whirl  of  the  life  she  led  me,  —  when  I  looked  into  the 
depths  of  my  heart,  and  saw  w^hat  the  thin  film  of  passion 
and  pleasure  concealed,  —  in  those  serious  moments  which 
would  come,  and  my  soul  put  stern  questions  to  me,  — 
then,  sir,  —  then  —  Margaret  had  her  revenge. 


6i'o  THE  EOMANCE   OF  A  GLOVE. 

"  A  month,  crowded  and  glittering  with  novelty  and 
incident,  preceded  our  departure  for  Switzerland.  I  ac- 
companied Flora's  party;  Joseph  remained  behind.  We 
left  Paris  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  returned  in  Sep- 
tember. I  have  no  words  to  speak  of  that  era  in  my  life. 
I  saw,  enjoyed,  suffered,  learned  so  much  !  Flora  was 
always  glad,  magnificent,  irresistible.  But,  as  I  knew  her 
longer,  my  moments  of  misgiving  became  more  frequent. 
If  I  had  aspired  to  nothing  higher  than  a  life  of  sensuous 
delights,  she  would  have  been  all  I  could  wish.     But  — 

"  We  were  to  spend  the  winter  in  Italy.  Meanwhile,  we 
had  another  month  in  Paris.  Here  I  had  found  Joseph 
again,  who  troubled  me  a  good  deal  with  certain  rumors  he 
had  received  concerning  Margaret.  According  to  these,  she 
had  been  in  feeble  health  ever  since  we  left,  and  her 
increasing  delicacy  was  beginning  to  alarm  her  friends. 
'  But,'  added  another  of  Joseph's  correspondents,  '  don't  let 
West  wood  flatter  himself  that  he  is  the  cause,  for  she  is 
cured  of  him ;  and  there  is  talk  of  an  engagement  between 
her  and  a  handsome  young  clergyman,  who  is  both  elo- 
quent and  fascinating.' 

"  This  bit  of  gossip  made  me  very  bitter  and  angry. 
'  Forget  me  so  soon  ? '  I  said  ;  '  and  receive  the  attentions 
of  another  man  % '  You  see  how  consistent  I  was,  to  con- 
demn her  for  the  very  fault  I  had  myself  been  so  eager  to 
commit  ! 

"  Well,  the  round  of  rides,  excursions,  soirees,  visits  to 
the  operas  and  theatres,  walks  on  the  Boulevards,  and  in 
the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  ended  at  last.  The  evening 
before  we  were  to  set  out  for  the  South  of  France,  I  was 
at  my  lodgings,  unpacking  and  repacking  the  lugga[;-e 
which  I  had  left  in  Joseph's  care  during  my  absence  among 
the  Alps  ;  I  was  melancholy,  dissatisfied  with  the  dissipa- 
tions  which  had    exhausted  my  time   and   energies,   and 


THE  EOMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE.  377 

thinking  of  Margaret.  I  had  not  preserved  a  single  me- 
mento of  her ;  and  now  I  wished  I  had  one,  —  if  only  a 
withered  leaf,  or  a  line  of  her  writing.  In  this  mood  I 
chanced  to  cast  my  eye  upon  a  stray  glove,  in  the  bottom 
of  my  trunk.  I  snatched  at  it  eagerly,  and,  in  the  impulse 
of  the  moment,  —  before  I  reflected  that  I  was  wronging 
Flora,  —  pressed  it  to  my  lips.  Yes,  I  found  the  place 
where  it  had  been  mended,  the  spot  Margaret's  fingers- had 
touched,  and  gave  it  a  kiss  for  every  stitch.  Then,  in- 
censed at  myself,  I  flung  it  from  me,  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  I  strolled  through  the  Elysian  fields ;  stopped  by 
the  concert  gardens,  and  listened  to  the  glorified  girls  sing- 
ing under  rosy  and  golden  pavilions  the  last  songs  of  the 
season  ;  wandered  about  the  fountains,  —  by  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries,  Tvhere  the  trees  stood  so  shadowy  and 
still,  and  the  statues  gleamed  so  pale,  —  along  the  quays 
of  the  Seine,  where  the  waves  rolled  so  dark  below, — 
trying  to  settle  my  thoughts,  to  master  myself,  to  put 
Margaret  from  me. 

"Weary  at  length,  I  returned  to  my  chamber,  seated 
myself  composedly,  and  looked  down  at  the  glove  which 
lay  where  I  had  thrown  it,  upon  the  polished  floor.  Me- 
chanically I  stooped  and  took  up  a  bit  of  folded  paper.  It 
was  written  upon,  —  I  unrolled  it,  and  read.  It  w-as  as  if 
I  had  opened  the  record  of  doom  !  Had  the  apparition  of 
Margaret  herself  risen  suddenly  before  me,  I  could  not 
have  been  more  astounded.  It  was  a  note  from  her,  — • 
and  such  a  note  !  —  full  of  love,  suffering,  and  humility,  — 
poured  out  of  a  heart  so  deep  and  tender  and  true  that 
the  shallowness  of  my  own  seemed  utterly  contemptible 
in  comparison  with  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  was  written, 
but  it  was  more  than  even  my  most  cruel  and  exacting 
pride  could  have  asked.  It  was  what  would  once  have 
made    me  wild    with  joy ;  now  it    almost  maddened   me 


378         THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE. 

with  despair.  I,  who  had  often  talked  fine  philosophy  to 
others,  had  not  a  grain  of  that  article  left  to  physic  my 
own  malady.  But  one  course  seemed  plain  before  me,  and 
that  was,  to  go  quietly  and  drown  myself  in  the  Seine, 
which  I  had  seen  flowing  so  swift  and  dark  under  the 
bridges,  an  hour  ago,  when  I  stood  and  mused  upon  the 
tragical  corpses  its  sullen  flood  had  swallowed. 

"  I  am  a  little  given  to  superstition,  and  the  mystery  of 
the  note  excited  me.  I  wonder  if  there  was  n't  some 
subtile  connection  between  it  and  the  near  presence  of 
Margaret's  spirit,  of  which  I  had  that  night  been  conscious. 
But  the  note  had  reached  me  by  no  supernatural  method, 
as  I  was  at  first  half  inclined  to  believe.  It  was  perhaps 
the  touch,  the  atmosphere,  the  ineffably  fine  influence 
which  surrounded  it,  which  had  penetrated  my  unconscious 
perceptions,  and  brought  her  near.  The  paper,  the  glove, 
were  full  of  Margaret,  —  full  of  something  besides  what  we 
vaguely  call  mental  associations, — full  of  emanations  of 
the  very  love  and  suffering  which  she  had  breathed  into 
the  writing. 

"  How  the  note  came  there  upon  the  floor  was  a  riddle 
which  I  was  too  much  bewildered  to  explain  by  any  natu- 
ral means.  Joseph,  who  burst  in  upon  me,  in  my  extremity 
of  pain  and  difficulty,  solved  it  at  once.  It  had  fallen  out 
of  the  glove,  where  it  had  lain  folded,  silent,  unnoticed, 
during  all  this  intervening  period  of  folly  ^nd  vexation  of 
soul.  Margaret  had  done  her  duty  in  time ;  I  had  only 
myself  to  blame  for  the  tangle  in  which  I  now  found  my- 
self. I  was  thinking  of  Flora,  upon  the  deck  of  the  steam- 
ship, in  a  moment  of  chagrin  so  near  throwing  herself 
over,  —  wondering  to  what  fate  her  passion  and  impetu- 
osity would  hurry  her  now,  if  she  knew,  —  cursing  myself 
for  my  weakness  and  perfidy;  while  Joseph  kept  asking 
me  what  I  intended  to  do. 


1]'. 
r 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE.  ^79 

"  '  Do "?  do  ? '  I  said,  furiously,  '  I  shall  kill  you,  that  is 
is  what  I  shall  do,  if  you  drive  me  mad  with  questions 
which  neither  angels  nor  fiends  can  answer  ! ' 

"  '  I  know  what  you  will  do,'  said  Joseph ;  'you  will  go 
home  and  marry  Margaret.' 

"  You  can  have  no  conception  of  the  effect  of  these 
words,  —  Go  home  and  marry  Margaret.  All  that  might 
have  been,  —  what  might  be  still, —  the  happiness  cast 
away,  and  perhaps  yet  within  my  reach, —  the  temptation 
of  the  Devil,  who  appealed  to  my  cowardice,  to  fly  from 
Flora,  break  my  vows,  risk  my  honor  and  her  life,  for  Mar- 
garet, —  all  this  rushed  through  me  tumultuously.  At 
length  I  said  :  '  No,  Joseph ;  1  shall  do  no  such  thing, 
I  can  never  be  worthy  of  Margaret ;  it  will  be  only  by 
fasting  and  praj^er  that  I  can  make  myself  worthy  of 
Flora.' 

"  '  Will  you  start  for  Italy  in  the  morning  % '  he  asked, 
pitilessly. 

"  '  For  Italy  iii  the  morning  ] '  I  groaned.  Meet  Flora, 
travel  with  her,  play  the  hypocrite,  with  smiles  on  my  lips 
and  hell  in  my  heart,  —  or  thunder-strike  her  at  once  with 
the  truth  ;  —  what  was  I  to  do  1  To  some  men  the  ques- 
tion would,  perhaps,  have  presented  few  difficulties.  But 
for  me,  sir,  —  who  am  not  quite  devoid  of  conscience,  what- 
ever you  may  think,  —  having  driven  Joseph  away,  I 
locked  myself  into  my  room,  and  suffered  the  torments  of 
the  damned,  in  as  quiet  a  manner  as  possible,  until  morn- 
ing. Then  Joseph  returned,  and  looked  at  me  with  dis- 
may. 

"  '  For  Heaven's  sake  ! '  he  said,  '  you  ought  not  to  let 
this  thing  kill  you  ;  and  it  will,  if  you  keep  on.' 
•   " '  So  much  the  better,'  I  said,   '  if  it  kills  nobody  but 
me.     But    don't   be    alarmed.     Keep    perfectly  cool,    and 
attend  to  the  commission  I  am  going  to  trust  to  you.      I 


380  THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

can't  see  Flora  this  morning ;  I  must  gain  a  little  time. 
Go  to  the  station  of  the  Lyons  Kailwaj^  where  I  have  en- 
gaged to  meet  her  party  ;  say  to  her  that  I  am  detained, 
but  that  I  will  join  her  on  the  journe3\  Give  her  no  time 
to  question  you,  and  be  sure  that  she  does  not  stay  be- 
hind.' 

"  *  I  '11  manage  it,  —  trust  me  ! '  said  Joseph.  And  off 
he  started.  At  the  end  of  two  hours,  which  seemed  twenty, 
he  burst  into  my  room,  crying,  '  Good  news !  she  is  gone  ! 
I  told  her  you  had  lost  your  passport,  and  would  have 
to  get  another  from  our  minister.' 

"  '  What ! '  I  exclaimed,  '  you  lied  to  her  1 ' 

"  '  0,  there  was  no  other  way ! '  said  Joseph,  ingenu- 
ously, —  '  she  is  so  sharp  !  They  're  to  wait  for  you  at 
Marseilles.  But  I  '11  manage  that  too.  On  their  arrival 
at  the  Hotel  d' Orient,  they  '11  find  a  telegraphic  despatch 
from  me.  I  wager  a  hat,  they  '11  leave  in  the  first  steamer 
for  Naples.     Then  you  can  follow  at  your  leisure.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  Joseph.' 

"  I  felt  relieved.  Then  came  a  reaction.  The  next  day 
I  was  attacked  by  fever.  I  know  not  how  long  I  struggled 
against  it,  but  it  mastered  me.  The  last  things  I  remem- 
ber were  the  visits  of  friends,  the  strange  talk  of  a  French 
phj^sician,  whispers  and  consultations,  which  I  knew  were 
about  me,  yet  took  no  interest  in ;  and  at  length  Joseph 
rushing  to  my  bedside,  in  a  flutter  of  agitation,  and  gasp- 
ing, '  Flora ! ' 

"  '  What  of  Flora  1 '  I  demanded. 

"  *  I  telegraphed,  but  she  would  n't  go  ;  she  has  come 
back  ;  she  is  here  ! ' 

"  I  was  sinking  back  into  the  stupor  from  which  I  had 
been  roused,  when  I  heard  a  rustling  which  seemed  afar 
off,  yet  was  in  my  chamber ;  then  a  vision  appeared  to  my 
sickened  sight,  —  a  face  which  I  dimly  thought  I  had  seen 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE.  381 

before,  —  a  flood  of  curls  and  a  rain  of  kisses  showering 
upon  me,  —  sobs  and  devouring  caresses,  —  Flora's  voice 
calling  me  passionate  names  ;  and  I  lying  so  passive,  faintly 
struggling  to  remember,  until  my  soul  sank  whirling  into 
darkness,  and  I  knew  no  more. 

"  One  morning,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  long  after,  I 
awoke  and  found  myself  in  a  strange-looking  room,  filled 
with  strange  objects,  not  the  least  strange  of  which  was  the 
thing  that  seemed  myself.  At  first  I  looked  with  vague 
and  motionless  curiosity  out  of  the  Lethe  from  which  my 
mind  slowly  emerged  ;  painless,  and  at  peace  ;  listlessly 
questioning  whether  I  was  alive  or  dead,  —  whether  the 
limp  weight  Ij'ing  in  bed  there  was  my  body,  —  the  meaning 
of  the  silence  and  the  closed  curtains.  Then,  with  a  succes- 
sion of  painful  flashes,  as  if  the  pole  of  an  electrical  battery 
had  been  applied  to  my  brain,  memory  returned, —  Marga- 
ret, Flora,  Paris,  delirium.  I  remember  next  hearing  my- 
self groan  aloud  ;  then  seeing  Joseph  at  my  side.  I  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  not.  Upon  my  pillow  was  a  glove,  and 
he  placed  it  against  my  cheek.  An  indescribable,  excru- 
ciating thrill  shot  through  me ;  still  I  could  not  speak. 
After  that  came  a  relapse.  Like  Mrs.  Browning's  poet,  I 
lay 

*  'Twixt  gloom  and  gleam, 
With  Death  and  Life  at  each  extreme.' 

"  But  one  morning  I  was  better.  I  could  talk.  Joseph 
bent  over  me,  weeping  for  joy. 

"  '  The  danger  is  past ! '  he  said.  '  The  doctors  say  you 
will  get  W' ell  ! ' 

"  '  Have  I  been  so  ill,  then  1 ' 

"  '  Iin '  echoed  Joseph.  '  Nobody  thought  you  could 
live.     We  all  gave  you  up,  except  her  ;  and  she  —  ' 

"  '  She  ! '  I  said  ;  '  is  she  here  1 ' 

''  '  From  the  moment  of  her  arrival,'  replied  Joseph,  '  she 


382  THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE. 

has  never  left  you.  0,  if  you  don't  thank  God  for  her/ 
—  he  lowered  his  voice,  — '  and  live  all  the  rest  of  your 
life  just  to  reward  her,  you  are  the  most  ungrateful  wretch! 
You  would  certainly  have  died  but  for  her.  She  has 
scarcely  slept,  till  this  morning,  when  they  said  you  would 
recover.' 

"Joseph  paused.  Every  word  he  spoke  went  down 
like  a  weight  of  lead  into  my  soul.  I  had,  indeed,  been 
conscious  of  a  tender  hand  soothing  my  pillow,  of  a  lovely 
form  flitting  through  my  dreams,  of  a  breath  and  mag- 
netic touch  of  love  infusing  warm,  sweet  life  into  me  ; 
but  it  had  always  seemed  Margaret,  never  Flora. 

"  '  The  glove  1 '  I  asked. 

"  '  Here  it  is,'  said  Joseph.  '  In  your  delirium  you  de- 
manded it ;  you  would  not  be  without  it ;  you  caressed  it, 
and  addressed  to  it  the  tenderest  apostrophes.' 

"  '  And  Flora,  —  she  heard  ? ' 

"'Flora?'  repeated  Joseph.  'Don't  you  know — • 
have  n't  you  any  idea  —  what  has  happened  1  It  has  been 
terrible  ! ' 

"  '  Tell  me  at  once  ! '  I  said.      '  Keep  nothing  back  ! ' 

"  '  Immediately  on  her  return  from  Marseilles,  —  you 
remember  thaf?' 

"  '  Yes,  yes  !  go  on  ! '  . 

"  '  She  established  herself  here.  Nobody  could  come 
between  her  and  you ;  and  a  brave,  true  girl  she  proved 
herself.  0,  but  she  was  wild  about  you  !  She  offered  the 
doctors  extravagant  sums  —  she  would  have  bribed  Heaven 
itself,  if  she  could  —  not  to  let  you  die.  But  there  came 
a  time,  —  one  night,  when  you  were  raving  about  Marga- 
ret, —  I  tell  you,  it  was  terrible  !  She  would  have  the 
truth,  and  so  I  told  her, —  everything,  from  the  beginning. 
It  makes  me  shudder  now  to  think  of  it,  —  it  struck  her  so 
like  death  ! ' 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE.  383 

"  '  What  did  she  say  1  what  did  she  do  1  ' 

"  '  She  did  n't  say  much,  —  "  0  my  God  !  my  God  !  "  — 
something  like  that.  The  next  morning  she  showed  me 
a  letter  which  she  had  written  to  Margaret.' 

"  '  To  Margaret  1 '  I  started  up,  but  fell  back  again  help- 
less with  a  groan. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Joseph,  '  and  it  was  a  letter  worthy  of  the 
noblest  woman.  I  wrote  another,  for  I  thought  Margaret 
ought  to  know  everything.  It  might  save  her  life,  and 
yours  too.  In  the  mean  time,  I  had  got  startling  news 
from  her,  —  that  her  health  had  continued  to  decline,  and 
that  her  physician  had  seen  no  hope  for  her  except  in  a 
voyage  to  Italy.  She  had  set  out  in  company  with  the 
H s,  and  was  by  that  time  in  London.  I  sent  the  let- 
ters to  her  there,  and  —  you  know  the  rest.' 

"  '  The  rest  ^ '  I  said,  as  a  horrible  suspicion  flashed  upon 
me.     '  You  told  me  something  terrible  had  happened.' 

'( '  Yes,  —  to  Flora.  But  you  have  heard  the  worst. 
She  is  gone ;  she  is  by  this  time  in  Rome.' 

"  '  Flora  gone  ?     But  you  said  she  was  here.' 

"  '  She  ?  So  she  is  !  But  did  you  think  I  meant  Flora  ^ 
I  supposed  you  knew.  Not  Flora,  but  Margaret !  Mar- 
garet ! ' 

"  I  shrieked  out,  '  Margaret ! '  That 's  the  last  I  remem- 
ber,—  at  least,  the  last  I  can  tell.  She  was  there,  —  I 
was  in. her  arms.  And  Flora  had  gone,  and  my  dreams 
were  true ;  and  the  breath  and  magnetic  touch  of  love, 
which  infused  warm,  sweet  life  into  me,  and  seemed  not 
Flora's,  but  Margaret's,  were  no  illusion,  and  —  what  more 
can  I  tell  ? 

"From  the  moment  of  receiving  those  letters,  Marga- 
ret's energies  were  roused,  and  she  had  begun  to  regain 
her  health.  There  is  no  such  potent  medicine  as  hope  and 
love.     It  had  saved  her,  and  it  saved  me.     My  recovery 


384  THE  EOMANCE   OF   A   GLOVE. 

was  sure  and  speedy.  The  happiness  which  had  seemed 
too  great,  too  dear  to  be  ever  possible,  was  now  mine.  She 
was  with  me  again,  all  my  own !  Only  the  convalescent, 
who  feels  the  glow  of  love  quicken  the  pure  pulses  of  re- 
turning health,  knows  what  perfect  bliss  is. 

"  As  soon  as  I  was  strong  enough  to  travel,  we  set  out 
for  Italy,  the  faithful  Joseph  accompanying  us.  We  en- 
joyed Florence,  its  palaces  and  galleries  of  art,  the  quaint 
old  churches,  about  which  the  religious  sentiment  of  ages 
seems  to  hang  like  an  atmosphere,  the  morning  and  even- 
ing- clamor  of  musical  bells,  the  Arno,  and  the  olive- 
crowned  Tuscan  hills,  —  all  so  delightful  to  the  senses  and 
the  soul.  After  Florence,  Naples,  with  its  beautiful,  dan- 
gerous, volcanic  environs,  where  the  ancients  aptly  located 
their  heaven  and  hell,  .and  where  a  luxurious,  passionate 
people  absorbs  into  its  blood  the  spirit  of  the  soil,  and  the 
fire  and  languor  of  the  clime.  From  Naple^j  to  Rome, 
where  we  saw  St.  Peter's,  that  bubble  on  the  surface  of 
the  globe,  which  the  next  earthquake  may  burst,  the  Vati- 
can, with  its  marvels  of  statuary,  the  ruined  temples  of 
the  old  gods  and  heroes,  the  Campagna,  the  Pope,  and  — 
Flora. 

"  We  had  but  a  glimpse  of  her.  It  was  one  night,  at  the 
Colosseum.  We  had  been  musing  about  that  vast  and  sol- 
emn pile  by  the  moonlight,  which  silvered  it  over  with  in- 
describable beauty,  and  at  last,  accompanied  by  our  guides, 
bearing  torches,  we  ascended  through  dark  and  broken 
passages  to  the  upper  benches  of  the  amphitheatre.  As 
we  were  passing  along  one  side,  we  saw  picturesquely  mov- 
ing through  the  shadows  of  the  opposite  walls,  with  the 
immense  arena  between,  the  red-flaring  torches  and  half- 
illuminated  figures  of  another  party  of  visitors.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  instinct,  or  acuteness  of  vision,  that 
suggested  Flora ;  but,  with  a  sudden  leap  of  the  heart,  I 


THE   ROMANCE   OF  A   GLOVE.  385 

felt  that  she  was  there.  We  descended,  and  passed  out 
under  the  dark  arches  of  the  stupendous  ruin.  The  other 
visitors  walked  a  little  in  advance  of  us,  two  of  the 
number  lingering  behind  their  companions ;  and  we  heard 
certain  words  of  tenderness  and  passion  which  strangely 
brought  to  my  mind  those  nights  on  the  ocean  steamer. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter  with  you  V  said  Margaret,  looking 
in  my  face. 

"  '  Hush  ! '  I  whispered  ;  '  there  —  that  woman  —  is 
Flora ! ' 

"  She  clung  to  me ;  I  drew  her  closer,  as  we  paused  ; 
and  the  happy  couple  went  on,  over  the  ancient  Forum,  by 
the  silent  columns  of  the  ruined  temples,  and  disappeared 
from  sight  upon  the  summit  of  the  Capitoline  Hill. 

"  A  few  months  later,  we  heard  of  the  marriage  of  Flora 
to  an  English  baronet ;  she  is  now  my  Lad^,  and  I  must 
do  her  the  justice  to  say  that  I  never  knew  a  woman  bet- 
ter fitted  to  bear  that  title.  As  for  Margaret,  —  if  you 
will  return  with  me  to  my  home  on  the  Hudson,  after  we 
have  finished  our  hunt  after  those  Western  lands,  you  shall 
see  her,  together  with  the  loveliest  pair  of  children  that 
ever  made  two  proud  parents  happy. 

''And  here,"  added  Westwood,  "  we  have  arrived  at  the 
end  of  our  day's  journey ;  we  have  had  the  Romance  of 
the  Glove,  and  now  —  let 's  have  some  supper." 


17 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE. 


ON  a  recent  journey  to  the  Pennsylvania  oil  regions,  I 
stopped  one  evening  with  a  fellow-traveller  at  a  vil- 
lage which  had  just  been  thrown  into  a  turmoil  of  excite- 
ment by  the  exploits  of  a  horse-thief.  As  we  sat  around 
the  tavern  hearth,  after  supper,  we  heard  the  particulars 
of  the  rogue's  capture  and  escape  fully  discussed  ;  then 
followed  many  another  tale  of  theft  and  robbery,  told 
amid  curling  puffs  of  tobacco-smoke  ;  until,  at  the  close  of 
an  exciting  storj,  one  of  the  natives  turned  to  my  travel- 
ling acquaintance,  and,  with  a  broad  laugh,  said,  "  Kin  ye 
beat  that,  stranger  1 " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  —  maybe  I  could  if  I  should  try. 
I  never  happened  to  fall  in  with  any  such  tall  horse-steal- 
ing as  you  tell  of,  but  I  knew  a  man  who  stole  a  meeting- 
house once." 

"  Stole  a  meetin'-house  !  That  goes  a  little  beyant  any- 
thing yit,"  remarked  another  of  the  honest  villagers.  "  Ye 
don't  mean  he  stole  it  and  carried  it  away  ? " 

"Stole  it  and  carried  it  away,"  repeated  my  travelling 
companion,  seriously,  crossing  his  legs,  and  resting  his  arm 
on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "And,  more  than  all  that,  I 
helped  him." 

"  How  happened  that  1  —  for  you  don't  look  much  like  a 
thief,  yourself" 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  my  friend,  a  plain  New 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.  387 

England  farmer,  whose  honest  homespun  appearance  and 
.  candid  speech  commanded  respect. 

''  I  was  his  hired  man,  and  I  acted  under  orders.  His 
name  was  Jedwort,  —  Old  Jedwort,  the  boys  called  him, 
although  he  was  n't  above  fifty  when  the  crooked  little  cir- 
cumstance happened  which  I  '11  make  as  straight  a  story 
of  as  I  can,  if  the  company  would  like  to  hear  it." 

"  Sartin,  stranger !  sartin  !  about  stealin'  the  meetin'- 
house  !  "  chimed  in  two  or  three  voices. 

My  friend  cleared  his  throat,  put  his  hair  behind  his 
ears,  and  with  a  grave,  smooth  face,  but  with  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  shrewd  gray  eye,  began  as  follows  :  — 

"  Jedwort,  I  said  his  name  was ;  and  I  shall  never  for- 
get how  he  looked  one  particular  morning.  He  stood 
leaning  on  the  front  gate,  — or  rather  on  the  post,  for  the 
gate  itself  was  such  a  shackling  concern  a  child  could  n't 
have  leaned  on  't  without  breaking  it  down.  And  Jedwort 
was  no  child.  Think  of  a  stoutish,  stooping,  duck-legged 
man,  with  a  mountainous  back,  strongly  suggestive  of  a 
bag  of  grist  under  his  shirt,  and  you  have  him.  That  ima- 
ginary grist  had  been  growing  heavier  and  heavier,  and 
he  more  and  more  bent  under  it,  for  the  last  fifteen  years 
and  more,  until  his  head  and  neck  just  came  forward  out 
from  between  his  shoulders  like  a  turtle's  from  its  shell. 
His  arms  hung,  as  he  walked,  almost  to  the  ground.  Be- 
ing curved  with  the  elbows  outward,  he  looked  for  all  the 
world,  in  a  front  view,  like  a  waddling  interrogation-point 
enclosed  in  a  parenthesis.  If  man  was  ever  a  quadruped, 
as  I  've  heard  some  folks  tell,  and  rose  gradually  from  four 
legs  to  two,  there  must  have  been  a  time,  very  early  in  his 
history,  when  he  went  about  like  Old  Jedwort. 

"  The  gate  had  been  a  very  good  gate  in  its  day.  Hi 
had  even  been  a  genteel  gate  when  Jedwort  came  into  pos- 
session of  the  place  by  marrying  his  wife,  who  inherited  it 


388  THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE   A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

from  her  uncle.     That  was  some  twenty  years  before,  and 
everything  had  been  going  to  rack  and  ruin  ever  since. 

"Jedwort   himself  had    been  going   to  rack  and  ruin, 
morally  speaking.     He  was  a  middling  decent  sort  of  man 
when  I  first  knew  him  ;  and  I  judge  there  must  have  been 
something   about   him   more  than    common,  or  he  never 
could  have  got  such  a  wife      But  then  women  do  marrv, 
sometimes,  unaccountably.      I  've  known  downright  ugly 
and  disagreeable  fellows  to  work  around,  till  by  and  by 
they  would  get  a  pretty  girl  fascinated  by  something  in 
them  which  nobody  else  could  see,  and  then  marry  her  in 
spite  of  everything; — just  as  you  may  have  seen  a  mag- 
netizer  on  the    stage  make  his  subjects  do  just  what  he 
pleased,  or  a  black  snake  charm  a  bird.     Talk  about  wo- 
men marrying  with  their  eyes  open,  under  such  circum- 
stances !     They  don't  marry  wnth    their  eyes  open  :  they 
are  put  to  sleep,  in  one  sense,  and  a'n't  more  than  half  re- 
sponsible for  what  they  do,  if  they  are  that.     Then  rises 
the  question  that  has  puzzled  wiser  heads  than  any  of  ours 
here,  and  will  puzzle  more  yet,  till  society  is  different  from 
what  it  is  now,  —  how  much  a  refined  and  sensitive  woman 
is   bound  to  suffer  from  a  coarse  and  disgusting  master, 
legally  called  her  husband,  before  she  is  entitled  to  break 
off  a  bad  bargain  she  scarce  had  a  hand  in  making.     I  've 
sat  here  to-night,  and  heard  about  men  getting  goods  un- 
der false  pretences  ;  you  've  told  some  astonishing  big  sto- 
ries, gentlemen,  about  rogues  stealing  horses  and  sleighs  ; 
and  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  about  the  man  who  stole  a  meet- 
ing-house ;  but,  when  all  is  said,  I  guess  it  will  be  found 
that  more  extraordinary  thieving  than  all  that  often  goes 
oi>  under  our  own  eyes,  and  nobody  takes  any  notice  of  it. 
There  's  such  a  thing,  gentlemen,  as  getting  hearts  under 
false  pretences.     There  's  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  stealing 
a  wife. 


THE  MAN  \mO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.          389 

"  I  speak  with  feeling  on  this  subject,  for  I  had  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  what  Mrs.  Jedwort  had  to  put  up  with 
from  a  man  no  woman  of  her  stamp  could  do  anything 
but  detest.  She  was  the  patientest  creature  you  ever 
saw.  She  was  even  too  patient.  If  I  had  been  tied  to 
such  a  cub,  I  think  I  should  have  cultivated  the  beau- 
tiful and  benignant  qualities  of  a  wild-cat ;  there  would 
have  been  one  good  fight,  and  one  of  us  would  have 
been  living,  and  the  other  would  have  been  dead,  and  that 
would  have  been  the  end  of  it.  But  Mrs.  Jedwort  bore 
and  bore  untold  miseries,  and  a  large  number  of  children. 
She  had  had  nine  of  these,  and  three  were  under  the  sod 
and  six  above  it  when  Jedwort  ran  off  with  the  meeting- 
house in  the  way  I  am  going  on  to  tell  you.  There  was 
Maria,  the  oldest  girl,  a  perfect  picture  of  what  her  mother 
had  been  at  nineteen.  Then  there  were  the  two  boys, 
Dave  and  Dan,  fine  young  fellows,  spite  of  their  father. 
Then  came  Lottie,  and  Susie,  and  then  Willie,  a  little 
four-year-old. 

"  It  was  amazing  to  see  what  the  mother  would  do  to 
keep  her  family  looking  decent  with  the  little  means  she 
had.  For  Jedwort  was  the  tightest  screw  ever  you  saw. 
It  was  avarice  that  had  spoilt  him,  and  came  so  near  turn- 
ing him  into  a  beast.  The  boys  used  to  say  he  grew  so 
bent,  looking  in  the  dirt  for  pennies.  That  was  true  of  his 
mind,  if  not  of  his  body.  He  was  a  poor  man,  and  a 
pretty  respectable  man,  when  he  married  his  wife  ;  but  he 
had  no  sooner  come  into  possession  of  a  little  property 
than  he  grew  crazy  for  more.  There  are  a  good  many 
men  in  the  world,  that  nobody  looks  upon  as  monomaniacs, 
who  are  crazy  in  just  that  sort  of  way.  They  are  all  for 
laying  up  money,  depriving  themselves  of  comforts,  and 
their  families  of  the  advantages  of  society  and  education, 
just  to  add  a  few  dollars  to  their  hoard  every  year;  and 


390  THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE   A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

SO  they  keep  on  till  they  die  and  leave  it  to  their  children, 
who  would  be  much  better  off  if  a  little  more  had  been  in- 
vested in  the  cultivation  of  their  minds  and  manners,  and 
less  in  stocks  and  bonds. 

"  Jedwort  was  just  one  of  that  class  of  men,  although 
perhaps  he  carried  the  fault  I  speak  of  a  little  to  excess. 
A  dollar  looked  so  big  to  him,  and.  he  held  it  so  close,  that 
at  last  he  could  n't  see  much  of  anything  else.  By  degTees 
he  lost  all  regard  for  decency  and  his  neighbors'  opinions. 
His  children  went  barefoot,  even  after  they  got  to  be  great 
boys  and  girls,  because  he  was  too  mean  to  buy  them 
shoes.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  a  nice,  interesting  girl,  like 
Maria,  go  about  looking  as  she  did,  while  her  father  was 
piling  his  money  into  the  bank.  She  wanted  to  go  to 
school  and  learn  music,  and  be  somebody ;  but  he  would  n't 
keep  a  hired  girl,  and  so  she  was  obliged  to  stay  at  home 
jind  do  housework  ;  and  she  could  no  more  have  got  a  dol- 
lar out  of  him  to  pay  for  clothes  and  tuition,  than  you 
could  squeeze  sap  out  of  a  hoe-handle. 

"  The  only  way  his  wife  could  ever  get  anything  new 
for  the  family  was  by  stealing  butter  from  her  own  dairy, 
and  selling  it  behind  his  back.  '  You  need  n't  say  any- 
thing to  Mr.  Jedwort  about  this  batch  of  butter,'  she 
would  hint  to  the  storekeeper  ;  '  but  you  may  hand  the 
money  to  me,  or  I  will  take  my  pay  in  goods.'  In  this 
way  a  new  gown,  or  a  piece  of  cloth  for  the  boys'  coats,  or 
something  else  the  family  needed,  would  be  smuggled  into 
the  house,  with  fear  and  trembling  lest  old  Jedwort  should 
make  a  row  and  find  where  the  money  came  from. 

"  The  house  inside  was  kept  neat  as  a  pin ;  but  every- 
thing around  it  looked  terribly  shiftless.  It  was  built 
originally  in  an  ambitious  style,  and  painted  white.  It 
had  four  tall  front  pillars,  supporting  the  portion  of  the 
roof  that  came  over  the  porch,  —  lifting  up  the  eyebrows 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.  391 

of  the  house,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  and  making  it 
look  as  if  it  was  going  to  sneeze.  Half  the  blinds  were  off 
their  hinges,  and  the  rest  flapped  in  the  wind.  The  front 
doorstep  had  rotted  away.  The  porch  had  once  a  good 
floor,  but  for  years  Jedwort  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going 
to  it  whenever  he  wanted  a  board  for  the  pig-pen,  until 
not  a  bit  of  floor  was  left. 

"  But  I  began  to  tell  about  Jedwort  leaning  on  the  gate 
that  morning.  We  had  all  noticed  him  ;  and  as  Dave  and 
I  brought  in  the  milk,  his  mother  asked,  '  What  is  your 
father  planning  nowl  Half  the  time  he  stands  there, 
looking  up  the  road ;  or  else  he  's  walking  up  that  way  in 
a  brown  study.' 

"  '  He 's  got  his  eye  on  the  old  meeting-house,'  says 
Dave,  setting  down  his  pail.  '  He  has  been  watching  it 
and  walking  round  it,  off  and  on,  for  a  week.' 

"  That  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  of  what  the  old 
fellow  was  up  to.  But  after  breakfast  he  followed  mo  out 
of  the  house,  as  if  he  had  something  on  his  mind  to  say 
to  me. 

"  'Stark,'  says  he,  at  last,  'you've  always  insisted  on  't 
that  I  was  n't  an  enterprisin'  man.' 

"  '  I  insist  on  't  still,'  says  I ;  for  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
talking  mighty  plain  to  him,  and  joking  him  pretty  hard 
sometimes.  '  If  I  had  this  farm,  I  'd  show  you  enterprise. 
You  wouldn't  see  the  hogs  in  the  garden  half  the  time, 
just  for  want  of  a  good  fence  to  keep  'em  out.  You 
would  n't  see  the  very  best  strip  of  land  lying  waste,  just 
for  want  of  a  ditch.  You  would  n't  see  that  stone-wall  by 
the  road  tumbling  down  year  after  year,  till  by  and  by 
you  won't  be  able  to  see  it  for  the  weeds  and  thistles.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  he,  sarcasticalh^,  '  ye  'd  lay  out  ten  times  as 
much  money  on  the  place  as  ye  'd  ever  git  back  agin,  I  've 
no  doubt.     But  I  believe  in  economy.' 


392  THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE   A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

"  That  provoked  me  a  little,  and  I  said,  '  Economy  ! 
you  're  one  of  the  kind  of  men  that  '11  skin  a  flint  for 
sixpence  and  spoil  a  jack-knife  worth  a  shilling.  You 
waste  fodder  and  grain  enough  every  three  years  to  pay  for 
a  bigger  barn,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  inconvenience.' 

" '  Wal,  Stark,'  says  he,  grinning  and  scratching  his 
head,  '  I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  bigger  barn,  if  I 
have  to  steal  one.' 

"  '  That  won't  be  the  first  thing  you  've  stole,  neither,' 
says  I. 

"  He  flared  up  at  that.  '  Stole  ] '  says  he.  '  What  did 
I  ever  steal  ] ' 

"  '  Well,  for  one  thing,  the  rails  the  freshet  last  spring 
drifted  oft'  from  Talcott's  land  onto  yours,  and  you  grabbed  : 
what  was  that  but  stealing  1 ' 

"  '  That  was  luck.  He  could  n't  swear  to  his  rails.  By 
the  way,  they'll  jest  come  in  play  now.' 

"' They 've  ^  come  in  play  already,'  says  I.  'They've 
gone  on  to  the  old  fences  all  over  the  farm,  and  I  could 
use  a  thousand  more  without  making  much  show.' 

"  That 's  'cause  you  're  so  dumbed  extravagant  with  rails, 
as  you  are  with  everything  else.  A  few  loads  can  be 
spared  from  the  fences  here  and  there,  as  well  as  not. 
Harness  up  the  team,  boys,  and  git  together  enough  to 
make  about  ten  rods  o'  zigzag,  two  rails  high.' 

"  '  Two  rails  1 '  says  Dave,  who  had  a  healthy  contempt 
for  the  old  man's  narrow,  contracted  way  of  doing  things. 
*  What 's  the  good  of  such  a  fence  as  that  1 ' 

"  '  It'll  be,'  says  I,  'like  the  single  bar  in  music.  When 
our  old  singing  master  asked  his  class  once  what  a  single 
bar  was,  Bill  Wilkins  spoke  up  and  said,  "  It 's  a  bar  that 
horses  and  cattle  jump  over,  and  pigs  and  sheep  run 
under."     What  do  you  expect  to  keep  out  with  two  rails  ? ' 

"  '  The    law,   boys,    the    law,'    says    Jed  wort.      *  I  know 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.  393 

what  I  'm  about.  I  '11  make  a  fence  the  law  can't  run 
under  nor  jump  over;  and  I  don't  care  a  cuss  for  the 
cattle  and  pigs.  You  git  the  rails,  and  I  '11  rip  some  boards 
off  'm  the  pig-pen  to  make  stakes.' 

''  '  Boards  a'n't  good  for  nothin'  for  stakes,'   says  Dave. 

•  Besides,  none  can't  be  spared  from  the  pig-pen.' 

"  '  I  '11  have  boards  enough  in  a  day  or  two  for  forty  pig- 
pens,' says  Jed  wort.  '  Bring  along  the  rails  and  dump  'em 
out  in  the  road  for  the  present,  and  say  nothin'  to  nobody.' 

"  We  got  the  rails,  and  he  made  his  stakes ;  and  right 
away  after  dinner  he  called  us  out.     *  Come,  boys,'  says  he, 

*  now  we  '11  astonish  the  natives.' 

"  The  wagon  stood  in  the  road,  with  the  last  jag  of  rails 
still  on  it.  Jedwort  piled  on  his  stakes,  and  threw  on  the 
crowbar  and  axe,  while  we  were  hitching  up  the  team. 

"  '  Now,  drive  on,  Stark,'  says  he. 

"  '  Yes ;  but  where  shall  I  drive  to  ] ' 

"  '  To  the  old  meetin'-house,'  says  Jedwort,  trudging  on 
ahead. 

"The  old  meeting-house  stood  on  an  open  common,  at 
the  north-east  corner  of  his  ftu'm.  A  couple  of  cross-roads 
bounded  it  on  two  sides  ;  and  it  was  bounded  on  the  other 
two  by  Jedwort's  overgrown  stone  wall.  It  was  a  square, 
old-fashioned  building,  with  a  low  steeple,  that  had  a  bel- 
fry, but  no  bell  in  it,  and  with  a  high,  square  pulpit  and 
high,  straight-backed  pews  inside.  It  was  now  some  time 
since  meetings  had  been  held  there  ;  the  old  society  that 
used  to  meet  there  having  separated,  one  division  of  it 
building  a  fashionable  chapel  in  the  North  Village,  and  the 
other  a  fine  new  church  at  the  Centre. 

"Now,  the  peculiarity  about  the  old  church  property 
was,  that  nobody  had  any  legal  title  to  it.  A  log  meeting- 
house had  been  built  there  when  the  country  was  first  set- 
tled and  land  was  of  no  account.  In  the  course  of  time 
17* 


394  THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE  A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

that  was  torn  down,  and  a  good  framed  house  put  'jp  in  its 
place.  As  it  belonged  to  the  whole  community,'  no  title, 
either  to  the  house  or  land,  was  ever  recorded;  and  it 
was  n't  until  after  the  society  dissolved  that  the  question 
came  up  as  to  how  the  property  was  to  be  disposed  of 
While  the  old  deacons  were  carefully  thinking  it  over,  Jed- 
wort  was  on  hand,  to  settle  it  by  putting  in  his  claim. 

"  '  Now,  boys,'  says  he,  '  ye  see  what  I  'm  uj)  to,' 

•' '  Yes,'  says  I,  provoked  as  I  could  be  at  the  mean 
trick,  '  and  I  knew  it  was  some  such  mischief  all  along. 
You  never  show  any  enterjjrise,  as  you  call  it,  unless  it  is 
to  get  the  start  of  a  neighbor.  Then  3'ou  are  wide  awake ; 
then  you  are  busy  as  the  Devil  in  a  gale  of  wind.' 

"'But  what  are  you  up  to,  pa?'  says  Dan,  who  didn't 
see  the  trick  yet. 

"  The  old  man  says,  '  I  'm  goin'  to  fence  in  the  rest  part 
of  my  farm.' 

'''What  rest  part r 

" '  This  part  that  never  was  fenced ;  the  old  meetin'- 
house  common.' 

"  '  But,  pa,'  says  Dave,  disgusted  as  I  was,  '  you  've  no 
claim  on  that.' 

"  '  Wal,  if  I  ha'n't,  I  '11  make  a  claim.  Give  me  the 
crowbar.  Now,  here  's  the  corner,  nigh  as  I  can  squint ' ; 
and  he  stuck  the  bar  into  the  ground.  '  Make  a  fence 
to  here  from  the  wall,  both  sides.' 

"'Sho,  pa!'  sa^'s  Dan,  looking  bewildered;  'ye  a'n't 
goin'  to  fence  in  the  old  meetin'-house,  be  ye  1 ' 

"  '  That 's  jest  what  I  'm  goin'  to  do.  Go  and  git  some 
big  stuns  from  the  wall,  —  the  biggest  ye  can  find,  to  rest 
the  corners  of  the  fence  on.  String  the  rails  along  by  the 
road.  Stark,  and  go  for  another  load.  Don't  stand  gawp- 
in'  there  !  ' 

"  '  Gawpi£  ? '  says  I ;   '  it 's  enough  to   make   anybody 


THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.  395 

gaivp.  You  do  beat  all  the  critters  I  ever  had  to  deal 
with.  Have  n't  ye  disgraced  your  family  enough  already, 
without  stealing  a  meeting-house  1 ' 

"  '  How  have  I  disgraced  my  family  1 '  says  he. 

"  Then  I  put  it  to  him.  '  Look  at  your  children  ;  it 's 
all  your  wife  can  do  to  prevent  'em  from  growing  up  in 
raos  and  dirt  and  ignorance,  because  you  are  too  close- 
fisted  to  clothe  'em  decently  or  send  'em  to  school.  Look 
at  your  house  and  yard.  To  see  an  Irishman's  shanty  in 
such  a  condition  seems  appropriate  enough,  but  a  genteel 
place,  a  house  with  pillars,  run  down  and  gone  to  seed  lil^e 
that,  is  an  eyesore  to  the  community.  Then  look  at  your 
wife.  You  never  would  have  had  any  property  to  mis- 
manage, if  it  hadn't  been  for  her;  and  see  the  way  ye 
show  your  gratitude  for  it.  You  won't  let  her  go  into 
company,  nor  have  company  at  home  ;  you  won't  allow  a 
hired  girl  in  the  house,  but  she  and  Maria  have  to  do  all 
the  drudgery.  You  make  perfect  slaves  of  'em.  I  swear, 
if  't  wa'n't  for  your  wife,  I  w^ould  n't  work  for  you  an  hour 
longer ;  but  she  's  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  after  all 
you've  done  to  break  her  spirit,  and  I  hate  to  leave  her.' 

"  The  old  fellow  squirmed,  and  wrenched  the  crowbar 
in  the  ground,  then  snarled  back  :  '  Yes  !  you  're  w^aitin' 
for  me  to  die  ;  then  you  mean  to  step  into  my  shoes.' 

"  '  I  hope  you  '11  leave  a  decenter  pair  than  them  you  've 
got  on,  if  I  'm  to  step  into  'em,'  says  L 

'"  One  thing  about  it,'  says  he,  '  she  won't  have  ye.' 

"  '  I  should  think,'  says  I,  '  a  woman  that  would  marry 
you  would  have  'most  anybody.' 

"  So  we  had  it  back  and  forth,  till  by  and  by  he  left  me 
to  throw  off  the  rails,  and  went  to  show  the  boys  how  to 
build  the  fence. 

"  'Look  here,'  says  he  ;  'jest  put  a  thunderin'  big  stun 
to  each  corner  ;  then  lay  your  rail  on ;  tlien  drive  your 


396  THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

pair  of  stakes  over  it  like  a  letter  X.'  He  drove  a  pair. 
*  Now  put  on  your  rider.  There 's  your  letter  X,  ridin' 
one  length  of  rails  and  carryin'  another.  That 's  what  I 
call  puttin'  yer  alphabet  to  a  practical  use ;  and  I  say 
there  a'n't  no  sense  in  havin'  any  more  edication  than  ye 
can  put  to  a  practical  use.  I  've  larnin'  enough  to  git 
along  in  the  world  ;  and  if  my  boys  have  as  much  as  I  've 
got,  they'll  git  along.  Now  work  spry,  for  there  comes 
Deacon  Talcott.' 

"  '  Wal,  wal !  '  says  the  Deacon,  coming  up,  puffing  with 
excitement ;  ^  what  ye  doin'  to  the  old  meetin'-house  ? ' 

"  '  Wal,'  says  Jed  wort,  driving  away  at  his  stakes,  and 
never  looking  up,  '  I  've  been  considerin'  some  time  what  I 
should  do  with 't,  and  I  've  concluded  to  make  a  barn  on  't.' 

" '  Make  a  barn  !  make  a  barn  ! '  cries  the  Deacon. 
'Who  give  ye  liberty  to  make  a  barn  of  the  house  of  God  V 

"  '  Nobody ;  T  take  the  liberty.  Why  should  n't  I  do 
what  I  please  with  my  own  prop'ty  % ' 

"  *  Your  own  property,  —  what  do  ye  mean  %  'T  a'n't 
your  meetin'-house.' 

"  '  Whose  is 't,  if  't  a'n't  mine  % '  says  Jedwort,  lifting  his 
turtle's  head  from  between  his  horizontal  shoulders,  and 
grinning  in  the  Deacon's  face. 

"  '  It  belongs  to  the  society,'  says  the  Deacon. 

"  '  But  the  s'ciety  's  pulled  up  stakes  and  gone  off.' 

" '  It  belongs  to  individooals  of  the  society,  —  to  indi- 
vidooals.' 

"  '■  Wal,  I  'm  an  individooal,'  says  Jedwort. 

"  *  You  !  3'ou  never  went  to  meetin'  here  a  dozen  times 
in  your  life  ! ' 

"  '  I  never  did  have  my  share  of  the  old  meetin'-house, 
that 's  a  fact,'  says  Jedwort ;  '  but  I  '11  make  it  up  now.' 

"  '  But  what  arc  ye  fencin'  up  the  common  for  % '  says 
the  Deacon. 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.  397 

"  '  It  '11  make  a  good  calf-pastur'.  I  've  never  had  my 
share  o'  the  vally  o'  that,  either.  I  've  let  my  neighbors' 
pigs  and  critters  run  on  't  long  enough  ;  and  now  I  'm  jest 
goin'  to  take  possession  o'  my  own.* 

'^ '  Your  own  ! '  says  the  Deacon,  in  perfect  consternation. 
'Yon  've  no  deed  on  't.' 

"'Wal,  have  your 

"  '  No  —  but  —  the  society  — ' 

"  '  The  s'ciety,  I  tell  je,'  says  Jedwort,  holding  his  head 
up  longer  than  I  ever  knew  him  to  hold  it  up  at  a  time, 
and  grinning  all  the  while  in  Talcott's  face,  —  '  the  s'ciety 
is  split  to  pieces.  There  a  n't  no  s'ciety  now,  —  any  more 
'n  a  pig  's  a  pig  arter  you  've  butchered  and  e't  it.  You  've 
e't  the  pig  amongst  ye,  and  left  me  the  pen.  The  s'ciety 
never  had  a  deed  o'  this  'ere  prop'ty  ;  and  no  man  never 
had  a  deed  o'  this  'ere  prop'ty.  My  wife's  gran'daddy, 
when  he  took  up  the  land  here,  was  a  good-natered  sort  of 
man,  and  he  allowed  a  corner  on  't  for  his  neighbors  to  put 
up  a  temp'rary  meetin'-house.  That  was  finally  used  up, 
—  the  kind  o'  preachin'  they  had  them  days  was  enough 
to  use  up  in  a  little  time  any  house  that  wa'n't  fire-proof; 
and  when  that  was  preached  to  pieces,  they  put  up  another 
shelter  in  its  place.  This  is  it.  And  now  't  the  land  a'n't 
used  no  more  for  the  puppose  't  was  lent  for,  it  goes  back 
nat'rally  to  the  estate  't  was  took  from,  and  the  buildin's 
along  with  it.' 

"  '  That 's  all  a  sheer  fabrication,'  says  the  Deacon.  '  This 
land  was  never  a  part  of  what 's  now  your  farm,  any  more 
than  it  was  a  part  of  mine.' 

"  '  Wal,'  says  Jedwort,  '  I  look  at  it  in  my  way,  and 
you  've  a  perfect  right  to  look  at  it  in  your  way.  But  I  'm 
goin'  to  make  sure  o'  my  way,  by  puttin'  a  fence  round  the 
hull  concern.' 

"  '  And  you  're  usin'  some  of  my  rails  for  to  do  it  with  ! ' 
says  the  Deacon. 


398  THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

"  *  Can  you  swear  't  they  're  your  rails  1 ' 

"  '  Yes,  I  can ;  they  're  rails  the  freshet  carried  off  from 
my  farm  last  spring,  and  landed  onto  yourn.' 

'' '  So  I  've  heard  ye  say.  But  can  you  swear  to  the  par- 
tic'lar  rails  1  Can  you  swear,  for  instance,  't  this  'ere  is 
your  rail  1  or  this  'ere  one  1 ' 

"  'No;  I  can't  swear  to  precisely  them  two,  — but —  ' 

"  '  Can  you  swear  to  these  two  1  or  to  any  one  or  two  ? ' 
says  Jedwort.  '  No,  ye  can't.  Ye  can  swear  to  the  lot  in 
general,  but  you  can't  swear  to  any  partic'lar  rail,  and  that 
kind  o'  swearin'  won't  stand  law,  Deacon  Talcott.  I  don't 
boast  of  bein'  an  edicated  man,  but  I  know  suthin'  o'  what 
law  is,  and  when  I  know  it,  I  dror  a  line  there,  and  I  toe 
that  line,  and  I  make  my  neighbors  toe  that  line.  Deacon 
Talcott.  Nine  p'ints  of  the  law  is  possession,  and  I  '11 
have  possession  o'  this  'ere  house  and  land  by  fencin'  on  't 
in ;  and  though  every  man  't  comes  along  should  say  these 
'ere  rails  belong  to  them,  I  '11  fence  it  in  with  these  'ere 
very  rails.' 

"  Jedwort  said  this,  wagging  his  obstinate  old  head,  and 
grinning  with  his  face  turned  up  pugnaciously  at  the  Dea- 
con ;  then  went  to  work  again  as  if  he  had  settled  the 
question^  and  did  n't  wish  to  discuss  it  any  further. 

"  As  for  Talcott,  he  was  too  full  of  wrath  and  boiling 
indignation  to  answer  such  a  speech.  .  He  knew  that  Jed- 
wort had  managed  to  get  the  start  of  him  with  regard  to 
the  rails,  by  mixing  a  few  of  his  own  with  those  he  had 
stolen,  so  that  nobody  could  tell  'em  apart ;  and  he  saw  at 
once  that  the  meeting-house  was  in  danger  of  going  the 
same  way,  just  for  want  of  an  owner  to  swear  out  a  clear 
title  to  the  property.  He  did  just  the  wisest  thing  when 
he  swallowed  his  vexation,  and  hurried  off  to  alarm  the 
leading  men  of  the  two  societies,  and  to  consuls  a  lawyer. 

"  '  He  '11  stir  up  the  old  town  like  a  bumble-bee's  nest,' 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.  399 

says  Jedwort.      '  Hurry  up,  boys,  or  there  '11  be  a  buzziii' 
round  our  ears  'fore  we  git  through  ! ' 

"  '  I  wish  ye  would  n't,  pa  ! '  says  Dave.  *  Why  don't 
we  'tend  to  our  own  business,  and  be  decent,  like  other 
folks  1     I  'm  sick  of  this  kind  of  life.' 

"  *  Quit  it,  then,'  says  Jedwort. 

*'  'Do  you  tell  me  to  quit  iti'  says  Dave,  dropping  the 
end  of  a  rail  he  was  handling. 

"  '  Yes,  I  do ;  and  do  it  dumbed  quick,  if  ye  can't  show 
a  proper  respect  to  your  father  ! ' 

"Dave  turned  white  as  a  sheet,  and  he  trembled  as  he 
answered  back,  '  I  should  be  glad  to  show  you  respect,  if 
you  was  a  man  I  could  feel  any  respect  for.' 

"  At  that,  Jedwort  caught  hold  of  the  iron  bar  that  was 
sticking  in  the  ground,  where  he  had  been  making  a  hole 
for  a  stake,  and  pulled  away  at  it.  '  I  '11  make  a  stake-hole 
in  you  ! '  says  he.  *  It 's  enough  to  have  a  sassy  hired  man 
round,  without  bein'  jawed  by  one's  own  children  ! ' 

"  Dave  was  out  of  reach  by  the  time  the  bar  came  out 
of  the  ground. 

" '  Come  here,  you  villain  ! '  says  the  old  man. 

"  'I  'd  rather  be  excused,'  says  Dave,  backing  off.  *  I 
don't  want  any  stake-holes  made  in  me  to-day.  You  told 
me  to  quit,  and  I  'm  going  to.  You  may  steal  your  own 
meeting-houses  in  future  ;  I  won't  help.' 

"  There  was  a  short  race.  Dave's  young  legs  proved  al- 
together too  smart  for  the  old  waddler's,  and  he  got  off. 
Then  Jedwort,  coming  back,  wheezing  and  sweating,  with 
his  iron  bar,  turned  savagely  on  me. 

"  '  I  've  a  good  notion  to  tell  you  to  go  too  ! ' 

"  *  Very  well,  why  don't  ye  1 '  says  I.      '  I  'm  ready.' 

" '  There  's  no  livin'  with  ye,  ye  're  gittin'  so  dumbed 
sassy  !     What  I  keep  ye  for  is  a  mystery  to  me.' 

"  '  No,  it  a'n't ;  you  keep  me  because  you  can't  get  an- 


400  THE   MAN  WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

other  man  to  fill  mj  place.  You  put  up  with  my  sass  for 
the  money  I  bring  ye  in.' 

"  *  Hold  3^our  yawp,'  says  he,  *  and  go  and  git  another 
load  of  rails.  If  ye  see  Dave,  tell  him  to  come  back  to 
work.' 

"  I  did  see  Dave,  but,  instead  of  telling  him  to  go  back, 
I  advised  him  to  put  out  from  the  old  home  aud  get  his 
living  somewhere  else.  His  mother  and  Maria  agreed  with 
me ;  and  when  the  old  man  came  home  that  night,  Dave 
was  gone. 

"When  I  got  back  with  my  second  load,  I  found  the 
neighbors  assembling  to  witness  the  stealing  of  the  old 
meeting-house,  and  Jedwort  was  answering  their  remon- 
strances. 

"  'A  meetin'-house  is  a  respectable  kind  o'  prop'ty  to 
have  round,'  says  he.  '  The  steeple  '11  make  a  good  show 
behind  my  house.  When  folks  ride  by,  they  '11  stop  and 
look,  and  say,  "  There  's  a  man  keeps  a  private  meetin'- 
house  of  his  own."  I  can  have  preachin'  in 't,  too,  if  I 
want.  I  'm  able  to  hire  a  preacher  of  my  own,  or  I  can 
preach  myself  and  save  the  expense.' 

"  Of  course,  neither  sarcasm  nor  argument  could  have 
any  effect  on  such  a  man.  As  the  neighbors  were  going 
away,  Jedwort  shouted  after  'em :  '  Call  agin.  Glad  to  see 
ye.  There  '11  be  more  sport  in  a  few  days,  when  I  take  the 
dumbed  thing  away.'  (The  dumbed  thing  was  the  meet- 
ing-house.) 'I  invite  ye  all  to  see  the  show.  Free  gratis. 
It  '11  be  good  as  a  circus,  and  a  'tarnal  sight  cheaper.  The 
women  can  bring  their  knittiri',  and  the  gals  their  ever- 
lastin'  tattin'.  As  it  '11  be  a  pious  kind  o'  show,  bein'  it 's 
a  meetin'-house,  guess  I  '11  have  notices  gi'n  out  from  the 
pulpits  the  Sunday  afore.' 

"  The  common  was  fenced  in  hj  sundown  ;  and  the  next 
day  Jedwort  had  over  a  house-mover  from  the  North  Yil- 


THE   MAN   WHY   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE.  401 

lage  to  look  and  see  what  could  be  done  with  the  building. 
'  Can  ye  snake  it  over,  and  drop  it  back  of  my  house  1 ' 
says  he. 

"  '  It  '11  be  a  hard  job,'  says  old  Bob,  '  without  you  tear 
down  the  steeple  fust.' 

"But  Jed  wort  said,  'What's  a  meetin'-house  'thout  a 
steeple  ?  I  've  got  my  heart  kind  o'  set  on  that  steeple, 
and  I  'm  bound  to  go  the  hull  hog  on  this  'ere  concern, 
now  I  've  begun.' 

" '  I  vow,'  says  Bob,  examining  the  timbers,  '  I  won't 
warrant  but  what  the  old  thing  '11  all  tumble  down.' 

"  '  I  '11  resk  it.' 

"  '  Yes  ;  but  who  '11  resk  the  lives  of  me  and  my  men  1 ' 

"  '0,  you'll  see  if  it's  re'ly  goin'  to  tumble,  and  look 
out.  I  '11  engage  't  me  and  my  boys  '11  do  the  most  dan- 
gerous part  of  the  work.  Dumbed  if  I  would  n't  agree  to 
ride  in  the  steeple  and  ring  the  bell,  if  there  was  one.' 

"  I  've  never-  heard  that  the  promised  notices  were  read 
from  the  pulpits ;  but  it  was  n't  many  days  before  Bob 
came  over  again,  bringing  with  him  this  time  his  screws 
and  ropes  and  rollers,  his  men  and  timbers,  horse  and  cap- 
stan ;  and  at  last  the  old  house  might  have  been  seen  on 
its  travels. 

*'  It  was  an  exciting  time  all  around.  The  societies 
found  that  Jedwort's  fence  ■  gave  him  the  first  claim  to 
house  and  land,  unless  a  regular  siege  of  the  law  was  gone 
through  to  beat  him  off,  —  and  then  it  might  turn  out 
that  he  would  beat  them.  Some  said  fight  him  ;  some 
said  let  him  be,  —  the  thing  a'n't  worth  going  to  law  for  ; 
and  so,  as  the  leading  men  could  n't  agree  as  to  what 
should  be  done,  nothing  was  done.  That  was  just  what 
Jedwort  had  expected,  and  he  laughed  in  his  sleeve  while 
Bob  and  his  boys  screwed  up  the  old  meeting-house,  and 
got  their  beams  under  it,  and  set  it  on  rollers,  and  slued  it 

z 


402  THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE   A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

around,  and  slid  it  on  the  timbers  laid  for  it  across  into 
Jedvvort's  field,  steeple  foremost,  like  a  locomotive  on  a 
track. 

"  It  was  a  trying  time  for  the  women-folks  at  home. 
Maria  had  declared  that,  if  her  father  did  persist  in  steal- 
ing the  meeting-house,  she  would  not  stay  a  single  day 
after  it,  but  would  follow  Dave. 

"  That  touched  me  pretty  close,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  it 
was  rather  more  Maria  than  her  mother  that  kept  me  at 
work  for  the  old  man.  '  If  you  go,'  says  I,  '  then  there  is 
no  object  for  me  to  stay  ;  I  shall  go  too.' 

"  '  That 's  what  I  supposed,'  says  she  ;  '  for  there  's  no 
reason  in  the  world  why  you  should  stay.  But  then  Dan 
will  go  ;  and  who  '11  be  left  to  take  sides  with  mother  1 
That 's  what  troubles  me.  0,  if  she  could  only  go  too  ! 
But  she  won't;  and  she  couldn't  if  she  would,  with  the 
other  children  depending  on  her.  Dear,  dear !  what  shall 
we  do  ? ' 

"  The  poor  girl  put  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  cried  ; 
and  if  I  should  own  up  to  the  truth,  I  suppose  I  cried  a 
little  too.  For  where 's  the  man  that  can  hold  a  sweet 
woman's  head  on  his  shoulder,  while  she  sobs  out  her 
trouble,  and  he  has  n't .  any  power  to  help  her  —  who,  I 
say,  can  do  any  less,  under  such  circumstances,  than  drop 
a  tear  or  two  for  company  1 

"  '  Never  mind  ;  don't  hurry,'  says  Mrs.  Jedwort.  '  Be 
patient,  and  wait  awhile,  and  it  '11  all  turn  out  right,  I  'm 
sure.' 

"  '  Yes,  you  always  say,  "Be  patient,  and  wait !  "  '  says 
Maria,  brushing  back  her  hair.  '  But,  for  my  part,  I  'm 
tired  of  waiting,  and  my  patience  has  given  out  long  ago. 
We  can't  always  live  in  this  way,  and  we  may  as  well  make 
a  change  now  as  ever.  But  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
going  and  leaving  you.' 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A   MEETING-HOUSE.  403 

"  Here  the  two  younger  girls  came  in  ;  and,  seeing  that 
crying  was  the  order  of  the  day,  they  began  to  cry ;  and 
when  they  heard  Maria  talk  of  going,  they  declared  they 
would  go ;  and  even  little  Willie,  the  four-year-old,  began 
to  howl. 

"  '  There,  there  !  Maria  !  Lottie  !  Susie  ! '  said  Mrs.  Jed- 
wort,  in  her  calm  way  ;  *  Willie,  hush  up  !  I  don't  know 
what  we  are  to  do ;  but  I  feel  that  something  is  going  to 
happen  that  will  show  us  the  right  way,  and  we  are  to 
wait.     Now  go  and  wash  the  dishes,  and  set  the  cheese.' 

"  That  was  just  after  breakfast,  the  second  day  of  the 
moving ;  and  sure  enough,  something  like  what  she  proph- 
esied did  happen  before  another  sun. 

"  The  old  frame  held  together  pretty  well  till  along  to- 
ward night,  when  the  steeple  showed  signs  of  seceding. 
*  There  she  goes  !  She  's  falling  now  ! '  sung  out  the  boys, 
who  had  been  hanging  around  all  day  in  hopes  of  seeing 
the  thing  tumble. 

"  The  house  was  then  within  a  few  rods  of  where  Jedwort 
wanted  it ;  but  Bob  stopped  right  there,  and  said  it  was  n't 
safe  to  haul  it  another  inch.  '  That  steeple  's  bound  to 
come  down,  if  we  do,'  says  he. 

"  '  Not  by  a  dumbed  sight,  it  a'n't,'  says  Jedwort. 
'  Them  cracks  a'n't  nothin' ;  the  j'ints  is  all  firm  yit.' 
He  wanted  Bob  to  go  up  and  examine  ;  but  Bob  shook  his 
head,  —  the  concern  looked  too  shaky.  Then  he  told  me 
to  go  up  ;  but  I  said  I  had  n't  lived  quite  long  enough,  and 
had  a-  little  rather  be  smoking  my  pipe  on  terra  Jirma. 
Then  the  boys  began  to  hoot.  '  Dumbed  if  ye  a'n't  all  a 
set  of  cowards,'  says  he.     '  I  '11  go  up  myself.' 

"  We  waited  outside  while  he  climbed  up  inside.  The 
boys  jumped  on  the  ground  to  jar  the  steeple,  and  make  it 
fall.  One  of  them  blew  a  horn,  —  as  he  said,  to  bring 
down  the  old  Jericho,  —  and  another  thought  he  'd  help 


404  THE   MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

things  along  by  starting  up  the  horse,  and  giving  the  build- 
ing a  little  wrench.  But  Bob  put  a  stop  to  that ;  and 
finally  out  came  a  head  from  the  belfry  window.  It  was 
Jedwort,  who  shouted  down  to  us  :  '  There  a'n't  a  j'int  or 
brace  gin  out.  Start  the  boss,  and  I  '11  ride.  Pass  me  up 
that  'ere  horn,  and  — ' 

"  Just  then  there  came  a  crackino-  and  looseninof  of  tim- 
bers ;  and  we  that  stood  nearest  had  only  time  to  jump 
out  of  the  way,  when  down  came  the  steeple  crashing  to 
the  ground,  with  Jedwort  in  it." 

"  I  hope  it  killed  the  cuss,"  said  one  of  the  village  story- 
tellers. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  replied  my  friend ;  "  it  just  cracked 
his  skull,  —  not  enough  to  put  an  end  to  his  miserable  life, 
but  only  to  take  away  what  little  sense  he  had.  We  got 
the  doctors  to  him,  and  they  patched  up  his  broken  head ; 
and,  by  George,  it  made  me  mad  to  see  the  fuss  the  wo- 
men-folks made  over  him.  It  would  have  been  my  way  to 
let  him  die ;  but  they  were  as  anxious  and  attentive  to 
him  as  if  he  had  been  the  kindest  husband  and  most  in- 
dulgent father  that  ever  lived ;  for  that 's  women's  style  : 
they  're  unreasoning  creatures. 

"  Along  towards  morning,  we  persuaded  Mrs.  Jedwort, 
who  had  been  up  all  night,  to  lie  down  a  spell  and  catch 
a  little  rest,  while  Maria  and  I  sat  up  and  watched  with 
the  old  man.  All  was  still  except  our  whispers  and  his 
heavy  breathing ;  there  w^as  a  lamp  burning  in  the  next 
room ;  when  all  of  a  sudden  a  light  shone  into  tlire  win- 
dows, and  about  the  same  time  we  heard  a  roaring  and 
crackling  sound.  We  looked  out,  and  saw  the  night  all 
lighted  up,  as  if  by  some  great  fire.  As  it  appeared  to  be 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  we  ran  to  the  door,  and 
there  what  did  we  see  but  the  old  meeting-house  all  in 
flames.     Some  fellows  had  set  fire  to  it  to  spite  Jedwort. 


THE  MAN  WHO  STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.         405 

It  must  have  been  burning  some  time  inside  ;  for  when  we 
looked  out  the  flames  had  burst  through  the  roof. 

"  As  the  night  was  perfectly  still,  except  a  light  wind 
blowing  away  from  the  other  buildings  on  the  place,  we 
raised  no  alarm,  but  just  stood  in  the  door  and  saw  it  burn. 
And  a  glad  sight  it  was  to  us,  you  may  be  sure.  I  just 
held  Maria  close  to  my  side,  and  told  her  that  all  was  well, 

—  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  '  0  yes,' 
says  she,  '  it  seems  to  me  as  though  a  kind  Providence  was 
burning  up  his  sin  and  shame  out  of  our  sight.' 

"  I  had  never  yet  said  anything  to  her  about  marriage, 

—  for  the  time  to  come  at  that  had  never  seemed  to 
arrive ;  but  there  's  nothing  like  a  little  excitement  to 
bring  things  to  a  focus.  You  've  seen  water  in  a  tumbler 
just  at  the  freezing-point,  but  not  exactly  able  to  make  up 
its  mind  to  freeze,  when  a  little  jar  will  set  the  crystals 
forming,  and  in  a  minute  what  was  liquid  is  ice.  It  was 
the  shock  of  events  that  night  that  touched  my  life  into 
crystals,  — '■  not  of  ice,  gentlemen,  by  any  manner  of  means. 

''  After  the  fire  had  got  along  so  far  that  the  meeting- 
house was  a  gone  case,  an  alarm  was  given,  probably  by 
the  very  fellows  that  set  it,  and  a  hundred  people  were  on 
the  spot  before  the  thing  had  done  burning. 

"  Of  course  these  circumstances  put  an  end  to  the  break- 
ing up  of  the  family.  Dave  was  sent  for,  and  came  home. 
Then,  as  soon  as  we  saw  that  the  old  man's  brain  was  in- 
jured so  that  he  was  n't  likely  to  recover  his  mind,  the 
boys  and  I  went  to  work  and  put  that  farm  through  a 
course  of  improvement  it  would  have  done  your  eyes  good 
to  see.  The  children  were  sent  to  school,  and  Mrs.  Jed- 
wort  had  all  the  money  she  wanted  now  to  clothe  them, 
and  to  provide  the  house  with  comforts,  without  stealing 
her  own  butter.  Jed  wort  was  a  burden  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
him,  that  was  just  about  the  happiest  family,  for  the  next 
four  years,  that  ever  lived  on  this  planet. 


406  THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A   MEETING-HOUSE. 

"  Jedwort  soon  got  his  bodily  health,  but  I  don't  think 
he  knew  one  of  us  again  after  his  hurt.  As  near  as  I  could 
get  at  his  state  of  mind,  he  thought  he  had  been  changed 
into  some  sort  of  animal.  He  seemed  inclined  to  take 
me  for  a  master,  and  for  four  years  he  followed  me  around 
like  a  dog.  During  that  time  he  never  spoke,  but  only 
whined  and  growled.  When  I  said,  *  Lie  down,'  he  'd  lie 
down  ;  and  when  I  whistled  he  'd  come. 

**  I  used  sometimes  to  make  him  work ;  and  certain  sim- 
ple things  he  would  do  very  well,  as  long  as  I  was  by.  One 
day  I  had  a  jag  of  hay  to  get  in ;  and,  as  the  boys  were 
away,  I  thought  I  'd  have  him  load  it.  I  pitched  it  on  to  the 
wagon  about  where  it  ought  to  lie,  and  looked  to  him  only 
to  pack  it  down.  There  turned  out  to  be  a  bigger  load 
than  I  had  expected,  and  the  higher  it  got,  the  worse  the 
shape  of  it,  till  finally,  as  I  was  starting  it  towards  the 
barn,  off  it  rolled,  and  the  old  man  with  it,  head  foremost. 

"  He  struck  a  stone  heap,  and  for  a  moment  I  thought  he 
was  killed.  But  he  jumped  up  and  spoke  for  the  first  time. 
^  I'll  blow  it,''  says  he,  finishing  the  sentence  he  had  begun 
four  years  before,  when  he  called  for  the  horn  to  be  passed 
up  to  him. 

"  I  couldn't  have  been  much  more  astonished  if  one  of 
the  horses  had  spoken.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  there  was 
an  expression  in  Jedwort's  face  that  had  n't  been  there  since 
his  tumble  in  the  belfry ;  and  I  knew  that,  as  his  wits  had 
been  knocked  out  of  him  by  one  blow  on  the  head,  so  an- 
other blow  had  knocked  'em  in  again. 

"  *  Where  's  Bob  % '  says  he,  looking  all  around. 

" '  Bob  1 '  says  I,  not  thinking  at  first  who  he  meant. 
*  0,  Bob  is  dead,  —  he  has  been  dead  these  three  years.' 

"  Without  noticing  my  reply,  he  exclaimed  :  '  Where 
did  all  that  hay  come  from?  Where's  the  old  meetin'- 
house "? ' 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.  407 

"  *  Don't  you  know  1 '  says  I.  '  Some  rogues  set  fire  to 
it  the  night  after  you  got  hurt,  and  burnt  it  up.' 

"  He  seemed  then  just  beginning  to  realize  that  some- 
thing extraordinary  had  happened. 

*' '  Stark,'  says  he,  '  what 's  the  matter  with  ye  1  You  're 
changed.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I,  '  I  wear  my  beard  now,  and  I  've  grown 
older ! ' 

** '  Dumbed  if  't  a'n't  odd  ! '  says  he.  '  Stark,  what  in 
thunder 's  the  matter  with  me  ? ' 

" '  You  've  had  meeting-house  on  the  brain  for  the  past 
four  years,'  says  I ;  *  that 's  what 's  the  matter.' 

"  It  was  some  time  before  I  could  make  him  understand 
that  he  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  so  long  a  time 
had  been  a  blank  to  him. 

"  Then  he  said,  '  Is  this  my  farm  ] ' 

" '  Don't  you  know  it  1 '  says  I. 

"  *  It  looks  more  slicked  up  than  ever  it  used  to,'  says  he. 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I ;  '  and  you  '11  find  everything  else  on  the 
place  slicked  up  in  about  the  same  way.' 

"  '  Where  's  Dave  1 '  says  he. 

** '  Dave  has  gone  to  town  to  see  about  selling  the  wool.' 

"  '  Where  's  Dan  1 ' 

"  '  Dan  's  in  college.  He  takes  a  great  notion  to  medi- 
cine ;  and  we  're  going  to  make  a  doctor  of  him.' 

"  '  W^hose  house  is  that  1 '  says  he,  as  I  was  taking  him 
home. 

"  *  No  wonder  you  don't  know  it,'  says  I.  '  It  has  been 
painted,  and  shingled,  and  had  new  blinds  put  on  ;  the  gates 
and  fences  are  all  in  prime  condition  ;  and  that 's  a  new 
bam  we  put  up  a  couple  of  years  ago.' 

"  '  Where  does  the  money  come  from,  to  make  all  these 
improvements  1 ' 

"  *  It  comes  off  the  place,'  says  I.      '  We  have  n't  run  in 


408         THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

debt  the  first  cent  for  anything,  but  we  've  made  the  farm 
more  profitable  than  it  ever  was  before.' 

"  '  That  my  house  % '  he  repeated  wonderingly,  as  we  ap- 
proached it.     '  What  sound  is  that  1 ' 

"  '  That 's  Lottie  practising  her  lesson  on  the  piano.' 

"  ^  A  pianer  in  my  house  % '  he  muttered.  '  I  can't  stand 
that ! '     He  listened.     '  It  sounds  pooty,  though  ! ' 

"  *  Yes,  it  does  sound  pretty,  and  I  guess  you  '11  like  it. 
How  does  the  place  suit  you  % ' 

"  '  It  looks  pooty.'  He  started.  '  What  young  lady  is 
that  % ' 

"  It  was  Lottie,  who  had  left  her  music,  and  stood  by 
the  window. 

"  *  My  dahter  !  ye  don't  say !  Dumbed  if  she  a'n't  a 
mighty  nice  gal.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I ;  '  she  takes  after  her  mother.' 

"  Just  then  Susie,  who  heard  talking,  ran  to  the  door. 

" '  Who  's  that  agin  % '  says  Jed  wort. 

''  I  told  him. 

'* '  Wal,  she 's  a  mighty  nice-lookin'  gal ! ' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I,  ^  she  takes  after  her  mother.' 

"Little  Willie,  now  eight  years  old,  came  out  of  the 
wood-shed  with  a  bow-and-arrow  in  his  hand,  and  stared 
like  an  owl,  hearing  his  father  talk. 

"  '  What  boy  is  that  % '  says  Jedwort.  And  when  I  told 
him,  he  muttered,  '  He  's  an  ugly-looking  brat ! ' 

"  *  He  's  more  like  his  father,'  says  I. 

"  The  truth  is,  Willie  was  such  a  fine  boy  the  old  man 
was  afraid  to  praise  him,  for  fear  I  'd  say  of  him,  as  I  'd 
said  of  the  girls,  that  he  favored  his  mother. 

"  Susie  ran  back  and  gave  the  alarm  ;  and  then  out 
came  mother,  and  Maria  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  —  for 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  had  been  married  now  nigh  on 
to  two  years. 


THE  MAN  WHO  STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.  409 

"  Well,  the  women-folks  were  as  much  astonished  as  I  had 
been  when  Jedwort  first  spoke,  and  a  good  deal  more  de- 
lighted. They  drew  him  into  the  house ;  and  I  am  bound 
to  say  he  behaved  remarkably  well.  He  kept  looking  at 
his  wife,  and  his  children,  and  his  gTandchild,  and  the  new 
paper  on  the  walls,  and  the  new  furniture,  and  now  and  then 
asking  a  question  or  making  a  remark. 

"  '  It  all  comes  back  to  me  now,'  says  he  at  last.  *  I 
thought  I  was  living  in  the  moon,  with  a  superior  race  of 
human  bein's ;  and  this  is  the  place,  and  you  are  the 
people.' 

"  It  was  n't  more  than  a  couple  of  days  before  he  began 
to  pry  around,  and  find  fault,  and  grumble  at  the  expense ; 
and  I  saw  there  was  danger  of  things  relapsing  into  some- 
thing like  their  former  condition.  So  I  took  him  one  side, 
and  talked  to  him. 

"  '  Jedwort,'  says  I,  '  you  're  like  a  man  raised  from  the 
grave.  You  was  the  same  as  buried  to  your  neighbors, 
and  now  they  come  and  look  at  you  as  they  would  at  a 
dead  man  come  to  life.  To  you,  it 's  like  coming  into  a  new 
world ;  and  I  '11  leave  it  to  you  now,  if  you  don't  rather 
like  the  change  from  the  old  state  of  things  to  what  you 
see  around  you  to-day.  You  've  seen  how  the  family  af- 
fairs go  on,  —  how  pleasant  everything  is,  and  how  we  all 
enjoy  ourselves.  You  hear  the  piano,  and  like  it ;  you  see 
your  children  sought  after  and  respected,  —  your  wife  in 
finer  health  and  spirits  than  you  've  ever  known  her  since 
the  day  she  was  married ;  you  see  industry  and  neatness 
everywhere  on  the  premises ;  and  you  're  a  beast  if  you 
don't  like  all  that.  In  short,  you  see  that  our  management 
is  a  great  deal  better  than  yours ;  and  that  we  beat  you, 
even  in  the  matter  of  economy.  Now,  w^hat  I  want  to  know 
is  this  :  whether  you  think  you  'd  like  to  fall  into  our  way 
of  living,  or  return  like  a  hog  to  your  wallow.' 
18 


410         THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE. 

"  '  I  don't  say  but  what  I  like  your  way  of  liviu'  very 
well,'  he  grumbled. 

"  '  Then,'  says  I,  'you  must  just  let  us  go  ahead,  as  we 
have  been  going  ahead.  Now  's  the  time  for  you  to  turn 
about  and  be  a  respectable  man,  like  your  neighbors.  Just 
own  up,  and  say  you  've  not  only  been  out  of  your  head  the 
past  four  years,  but  that  you  've  been  more  or  less  out  of 
your  head  the  last  four-and-twenty  years.  But  say  you  're 
in  your  right  mind  now,  and  prove  it  by  acting  like  a  man 
in  his  right  mind.  Do  that,  and  I  'm  with  you  ;  we  're  all 
with  you.  But  go  back  to  your  old  dirty  ways,  and  you  go 
alone.  Now  I  sha'  n't  let  you  off  till  you  tell  me  what 
you  mean  to  do.' 

"  He  hesitated  some  time,  then  said,  '  Maybe  you  're 
about  right,  Stark;  you  and  Dave  and  the  old  woman 
seem  to  be  doin'  pooty  well,  and  I  guess  I  '11  let  you  go 
on.' " 

Here  my  friend  paused,  as  if  his  story  was  done ;  when 
one  of  the  villagers  asked,  ''About  the  land  where  the 
old  meetin'-house  stood,  —  what  ever  was  done  with 
that?" 

"That  was  appropriated  for  a  new  school-house;  and 
there  my  little  shavers  go  to  school." 

"  And  old  Jedwort,  is  he  ahve  yet  1 " 

"  Both  Jedwort  and  his  wife  have  gone  to  that  country 
where  meanness  and  dishonesty  have  a  mighty  poor 
chance,  —  where  the  only  investments  worth  much  are 
those  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  Mrs.  Jedwort  was 
rich  in  that  kind  of  stock  ;  and  Jedwort's  account,  I  guess, 
will  compare  favorably  with  that  of  some  respectable  peo- 
ple, such  as  we  all  know.  I  tell  ye,  my  friends,"  continued 
my  fellow-traveller,  "there's  many  a  man,  both  in  the 
higher  and  lower  ranks  of  life,  that 't  would  do  a,  deal  of 
good,  say  nothing  of  the  mercy  't  would  be  to  their  fam- 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A  MEETING-HOUSE.         411 

ilies,  just  to  knock  'em  on  the  head,  and  make  Nebuchad- 
nezzars  of  'em,  —  then,  after  they  'd  been  turned  out  to  grass 
a  few  years,  let  'em  come  back  again,  and  see  how  happy 
folks  have  been,  and  how  well  they  have  got  along  with- 
out 'em. 

"  I  carry  on  the  old  place  now,"  he  added.  "  The  youn- 
ger girls  are  married  off;  Dan's  a  doctor  in  the-  North 
Village  ;  and  as  for  Dave,  he  and  I  have  struck  ile.  I  'm 
going  out  to  look  at  our  property  now." 


THE     END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelovv,  &  Co. 


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